


Do NOT Mess with Dr. Hooper

by felinefemme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly Hooper, Bitch!Molly AU, F/M, Gen, Humor, Nice!Sherlock AU, Single Molly is pretty kickass too, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefemme/pseuds/felinefemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written because of this quote from finalproblem, “It’s like this still is from an alternate universe where Sherlock is the sweet one and Molly is the pain in the ass” from tumblr (http://bbcsherlockftw.tumblr.com/post/42166084657/finalproblem-its-like-this-still-is-from-an).  And honestly, the photo does make Molly look more like an uptight beeyotch while Sherlock seems relatively... normal.  Amazing.  So I’m gonna do a remix on this, and hope it all makes sense.  Kinda.  Sorta.</p><p>Also, much thanks to Ariane DeVere (http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/?skip=10&tag=transcript) for her transcripts.  They are as invaluable as Molly’s (http://www.mollyhooper.co.uk/)  and John’s (http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/) blogs.  It’s fun turning such a sweet, soft lady who has kittens (KITTENS!) on her blog into someone who’s, well, more like me in temperament XP</p><p>Cross-posted on fanfiction.net</p><p>Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters (Arthur Conan Doyle does), nor the BBC series (cuz it’s BBC’s, as well as created by Steven Moffatt & Mark Gatiss).  All I’m doing is playing with them & putting them back nicely before Series 3.  Mostly ;-D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Pink

29 January.

It’s been a long day at the morgue for Molly Hooper, especially with Franklin Mortimer literally dying on the job at 67, so here she is, staying an extra shift to cover for her late coworker. And of course, wouldn’t you know it, “no good deed goes unpunished”, as the saying goes. Her punishment happens to be the tall man in the dramatic clothes with the dramatic airs practically sailing into the room as she was wheeling Mortimer’s body out to a uni lab class.

“Mr. Holmes, why are you here?” she sighed. “Aren’t there other morgues you could haunt?”

Sherlock Holmes smiles, trying to be charming. Honestly. What he needs is a decent comb for that messy head, she thought, or maybe some product. “I need that body,” he says, using a riding crop to point to the body bag. Wait, a riding crop? “A man’s alibi depends on what bruises form on his body within twenty minutes.”

Molly looked at the riding crop, then at the madman holding it. “No,” she said, nonplussed.

“What?” Sherlock Holmes looked aghast, like nobody had ever refused him before. Well, nobody other than Molly Hooper, that is, and it seemed he forgot that bit every time he came down. “Why not?”

She raised her eyebrows slightly. Idiot. “Because he’s needed elsewhere. And because you can’t just hit bodies randomly and expect them to have bruising at the same time simply because it’s caused by the same weapon. There are variables, you know, like age, health, gender, location of the bruising, blood circulation, even the force at which the victim was hit is a factor… or you would know if you’d done your homework properly.” She noticed the jab hit home when his lips thinned. “Some people bruise immediately, others take hours, and I’m guessing this body isn’t even close to the victim in terms of age or health.” And now only one eyebrow went up. 

“You haven’t let me see it yet, and you’ve no idea who victim was,” Holmes tried again. “I’m sure it’ll be of use.”

She smiled, but it was a flat, meaningless smile. “I’m sure. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be elsewhere.” Molly pushed the gurney hard at his legs, forcing him to either move or be seriously injured.

He chose, instead, to put his hands on the opposite end of the gurney and plant his feet on the floor. Dammit, “Wait,” Holmes said. “I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.” He smiled winningly, as if somehow this time, she’d fall for it.

She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. He could be so obvious. A supposed genius like him, stooping to such tactics? Really. “Yes,” she smiled back, and his smile and posture eased off a fraction into something like relief. “I’ll have it with two creams, two sugars. Thanks!” And, using a move similar to the one she employs while shopping at the market, she twisted the conveyance sharply, jolting it out of Holmes’ skinny hands and nearly tipping the body off, then barreled down the hallway without looking back. She could hear him start to chase after her, but this was St. Bart’s and she knew it like the back of her hand, especially where the closest loading elevator was. 

With some relief, she hit the “close” button, and started going up to the sixth floor. She sighed, and leaned against the wall. Then she looked down at the body bag. “You still manage to be a troublemaker, Franklin, dead or alive,” she shook her head. He was one of her few coworkers she could stand to be around, and now there was one less. Bother.

***

She decided to use the restroom and freshen up a bit, since she’d barely had a break in her double-shift. Maybe I’ll get some coffee, she thought hopefully as she reapplied her lipstick, hm, perhaps I should go to the Criterion and get a bite to eat as well. With that happy thought, she smoothed her hair out, smiled briskly at her reflection, and went back down to the morgue to sign off for a break.

There was a body in the morgue with suspicious red welts on its back when she returned. That idiot went and stole one of the bodies out for himself! No papers, no authorization, nothing! She searched for the paperwork for this particular body, and when she found it, she sighed with relief. Thankfully, Holmes had picked a John Doe, but that still didn’t excuse his cavalier attitude towards her position, the morgue, and the property of St. Bart’s. Then she spotted the riding crop in the sink, and smiled. So, that stupid, narcissistic fake detective is going to ruin my job to prove his point? she thought. Molly picked up the crop, sniffed it and found it was sanitized, which mollified her, just a little. Oh, and less worry about flying epithelials as she cracked it on his head. Excellent.

She knew where that idiot would be, because, aside from the morgue, his other usual hangout at St. Bart’s involved appropriating the computer and medical equipment. “Sherlock Holmes!” she banged into the lab, riding crop in hand.

Who she found in there, however, wasn’t just Holmes, who dropped the mobile phone in his hands, but some blonde man with a walking cane next to him, who fortunately caught said phone. Mike Stamford, one of the professors, was sitting there as well. He was a friendly sort who, unfortunately, was even friendly to Holmes, and. Too many witnesses if she were to properly beat the man, Molly thought despairingly, too bad for her, lucky for him. So she settled for glaring at him.

“Ah, Miss Hooper,” he smiled, “you’re wearing lipstick.”

She didn’t bother wasting her time rolling her eyes at him. “Obviously,” she said in a too-patient voice, “women do that. And it’s Doctor Hooper, remember?” Just because he was doing something without a proper label didn’t mean others didn’t have one. Hm, might have to add “misogynist” to the list of negatives, she thought.

“Ah, yes, of course,” he colored, then sped to the other side of the lab table and gave her a cup of coffee, but the return trip had him on Molly’s side, not on the stranger’s. From the smell, it was probably from the cafeteria. Ugh. “Your coffee, Molly.” The way he said it, it was like he was handing her the Holy Grail.

She wasn’t going to refuse the caffeine, because God knew she needed it. Yes, it was definitely the cafeteria coffee sludge, in spite of the added cream and sugar, and yes, she was definitely going to the Criterion for some decent coffee and a meal after this. “You owe me more than that,” she said evenly, “you owe me an apology and perhaps a few broken bones.” When he paled at that, she smiled, “I’ll take the apology, for now. And a word of warning, I’m reinstating the locks on the morgue. I know it’ll only take you perhaps ten minutes longer to crack, but that’s ten minutes more that New Scotland Yard will have to arrest you for breaking in. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, Molly,” he said, although it was clear to everyone in the room he was more sorry he was caught and reprimanded than for his initial crime. “I promise to bring proper authorities next time.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Next time? Aren’t there other morgues you could plague?”

Rather than answer her, he sidestepped the question by introducing the sandy-haired man. “John here is also a doctor,” Holmes said, putting John between them, seemingly achieving the feat of making it look polite rather than him hiding behind a man with a walking cane. “Dr. Watson, meet Dr. Hooper.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, pasting on a smile as she held out her hand.

“Likewise,” Dr. Watson said, his grip firm as his expression. “How do you know each other?”

“We don’t,” she said bluntly, “and I hope we never do.”

He blinked in surprise, his expression shifting into something of a bland acceptance. “Ah, all right, then,” he said.

She shook her head, then headed out the door. “When I come back from break, you should all be out of here,” she said, “including you, Mike.” Stamford waved at her with a weak smile, then she swept out the door. 

It’s too bad she doesn’t indulge in vices, because she could use a smoke or a drink right about now. Instead, she heads over to the bus station, because she needs to get some decent coffee, some food in her stomach, and plenty of distance between herself and that idiot.


	2. The Blind Baker

25 March.

Caroline left, so there’s even less people working at the morgue. At least she’s not dead, Molly Hooper thought to herself, but they still haven’t replaced Franklin’s position. It was another long day, but this time, because they were two down, everyone was affected, so it wasn’t just Molly’s burden to bear.

However, things were looking up, aside from not having to hear about Caroline’s bloody hedge any more. She’d gotten a cat last month and named him Obit, for “obituary”. Meena thought she was a little mad, but it was actually quite funny that the cat responded to the name. She’d replied to Meena’s comment that she chose the lesser of two evils, since there was no way that she was getting a gay best friend, which was Meena’s other option for her in terms of company. Too much drama.

She went to the canteen and stared at the menu items in a sort of daze. It had been a long day, but she desperately needed to eat. Then a familiar voice brought her back to earth, unfortunately. “What are you thinking: pork or pasta?”

She started, and then sighed. “Sherlock Holmes. Just when I thought this place would be free from your presence.”

The tall man smiled pleasantly at her. It only made her wish the riding crop was in her hand and not in her office. “Oh, don’t be like that. Hm, this place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?” he said, trying to start conversation with her. Then he nodded at the food. “I’d stick with the past. Don’t wanna be doing roast pork, not if you’re slicing up cadavers.”

She smiled back, stabbing her fork into the pork slices. “Actually, pork is exactly what I need to keep up my strength so I can slice up more,” and her smile turned nasty, staring right at him as she stabbed another slice, “cadavers.”

He swallowed hard. “Well, then. Wouldn’t want you fainting on the job. Speaking of your job, I hear you have Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis on your list,” he said, a weaker version of a smile returning to his face.

Ah, that’s it, she thought, finally getting to the point. “Yes, I sent the notes to Detective Inspector Dimmock. He should be receiving them sometime soon, if he checks his e-mail. Their paperwork’s already gone through,” she said briskly, moving away.

But he stepped in front of her, and she had to stop or waste her meal on his scarf. “You’ve changed your hair,” he said, trying another tactic.

“Move, or this gets on your precious clothes,” Molly glared.

He didn’t seem too bothered by that, still standing in front of her. “It’s usually parted in the middle, but it’s good now, it suits you better this way,” he smiled, as if he was flattering her.

She stared up at him. “Perhaps you should be Meena’s gay best friend,” she said, instead of saying that was the stupidest comment she’d heard on her hairstyle, which was borne out of the necessity of dealing with the tumescent bodies of drowned victims.

“What?” he blinked. Not quite the reaction he was hoping for, apparently.

Molly then kicked him in the shins, and he gasped and grabbed his leg. “Get me a warrant or some kind of papers, or even Dimmock, and you can see those bodies,” she said as he limped away from her.

Unfortunately, Holmes managed to get the paperwork through, and Dimmock called her, requesting to see the bodies. Dammit, she thought, but dutifully wheeled out said bodies, and set them up in the morgue for viewing. When Holmes came in, giving Molly a wide berth, as he was still limping a bit, followed by the brisk Dimmock, Molly merely pursed her lips before adjusting the latex gloves. “Which one first?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Holmes shrugged.

Prat, Molly thought, and unzipped Lukis’ body bag, not from the head up, as usual, but from the feet. “I expect you were looking for these,” she said, pointing at the tattoos.

“Yes, how did you know?” the not-detective stared at her.

She rolled her eyes. “If either of you had bothered to read the notes before coming down, you would’ve seen that I’d noted and attached pictures of the tattoos to the report, probably related to the Tongs, on both men’s feet. It’s not every day you see the same tattoo in a non-conspicuous and rather painful place. Well, aside from the crotch, that is, but those tend to be more bold and distinct rather than this simple design.” Both men looked a little queasy when she gestured toward the mentioned area. Too easy, she thought. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” Dimmock answered, then turned to Holmes. “But you knew these tattoos would be there before seeing them here.”

Holmes nodded. “Like Dr. Hooper said, these tattoos are of Tong origin, and I hope that now, you’d take me seriously.”

“That would be a first,” Molly muttered, zipping the body bags up again. So glad you concur with my analysis of the tattoos, you dimwit, she fumed inwardly, it’s part of my job! But Dimmock and Holmes were already heading out, and now she rolled her eyes as they continued their heated conversation.

For her part, she chose to tune them out. Honestly, if they can’t be bothered to check their e-mail on something that was apparently case-related, why even bother to send them anything? she thought, putting the bodies back into storage. No wonder New Scotland Yard’s relying on weirdoes like Sherlock Holmes.

So Molly washed up, then decided to vent on her blog about bloomin’ idiots invading her workplace. And to her surprise, she got an e-mail from some new guy in IT. She smiled, then continued to chat with him until he asked her out for coffee. She frowned, then shrugged. Why not, she thought, can’t be any worse than the dead men hanging out in the room now.

She left the morgue with something of a spring in her step, thankful to chat with someone who seemed to have a brain in his head at this time of night.


	3. The Great Game

30 March.

“I think we’re going to have to put locks on the labs as well,” Molly Hooper sighed when she walked into the lab with a report. “What on earth are you two doing here?”

Sherlock Holmes was smiling at the computer monitor, the smile fading a little as he sees Molly. “Trying to save a woman’s life,” he said simply.

She looked at the sandy-haired man, now without his walking cane, who merely nods. “I don’t suppose either of you have any papers or a proper pass for use of the lab, do you?” Sherlock, who’d gone back to staring down into a microscope, looked up and smiled sheepishly. “Right,” she sighed. “Fine. I’ll be calling Lestrade, then.”

As she pulled out her phone, a man in typical computer nerd-wear, thick glasses included, strides into the room. “There you are, Molly,” he said, smiling briefly.

She looks up and stops dialing. “Hullo, Jim,” she smiled back.

“Thought I’d interrupt your work for a bite,” he said, “are these two new?”

She shook her head. “No, they’re freelancers. Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes,” she waved carelessly at them. “Jim, have a seat, I won’t be long.” She shoved Holmes over, making both the not-detective and the would-be doctor somewhat disgruntled, but she didn’t care. After all, she’s got a job here, and one that pays her bills. She’s not being paid to babysit these men. Automatically, she saved whatever the hell Holmes was working on, then opened a new window and logged into the system. Then she flipped open the manila folder and started typing the results of her latest autopsy, a literal cut-and-dried case that would put her off of beef jerky for a while.

Her boyfriend, for his part, perched on a stool next to her, typing away on his phone. “Shall we try a new place, or should we head to the Fox?” he said, pausing in his typing.

Molly didn’t look up or stop typing. “Mm, probably the Fox for dinner. I want something light for lunch.”

“All right,” he smiled, and resumed his own thumb-typing on a much smaller keyboard.

“Hang on, new boyfriend?” Dr. Watson said out of nowhere.

“No, evil twin brother,” Molly replied sarcastically, connecting her mobile phone to the computer and uploading the photos.

“Well, that makes sense,” Sherlock murmured.

“For freelancers, they’re awfully familiar, aren’t they?” Jim frowned at Molly.

She sighed, then disconnected her phone and logged out. “Don’t worry about them. They’re harmless. Stupid, but harmless,” she said as she stood, ignoring the insulted glares from both men.

But her boyfriend frowned at Holmes and Watson. “I don’t know,” he said, “does this hospital always let any sort just wander in and use the equipment?” Then his large dark eyes narrowed further. “Holmes. That’s the one who keeps barging in here?”

There’s a large part of her that’s gratified that she’s not the only one who’s ticked off by the freelancer’s flaunting authority. “Yes, that’s the one,” she said.

Then he smirked. “Like you said, not much too him except for hair and clothes. Hope he knows what he’s doing with a microscope.”

“Oi!” Watson glared at him. Looks like Holmes has a loyal pet, Molly thought to herself.

But Jim shook his head. “Not sure what kind of doctor you are, but I’m guessing you’re about as reputable as your mate there.” Watson started towards him, but Holmes shook his head.

“That’s why I love you,” Molly laughed and linked her arm in his. “Come on, Jim, let’s have lunch before I spoil my appetite.”

He smiled and kissed her. “All right then,” he said, and they walked out. As they went down the hallway, he raised an eyebrow. “Evil twin brother, eh? Won’t that make us incestuous, then?” And he waggled both eyebrows for effect.

She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. If anything, you should be flattered you’re considered the evil one, since I’m apparently the wicked witch at work.”

“Alliteration, nice,” Jim smiled, “and that’s why I love you.”

She couldn’t help but smile back. They ended up having Chinese at a tiny restaurant, and Jim made her laugh with his insulting impressions of the various passersby. Their lunch break was over too soon, and she found herself wishing her shift was already over so they could go on to dinner. Perhaps it was because she was looking forward to it, but the minutes dragged on for what seemed like hours, and by dinner time, Jim escaped from IT to take her out to the Fox. It was more than a little busy, of course, but Jim somehow had connections, and they got themselves seated with decent service, to boot. The meal was amazing, as always, Molly swore that she’d get fat on the incredible restaurant food they were eating as they were dating. Jim always said he liked his women with curves, not angles, so she felt a bit better. He had other things going for him, like he always picked up the tab, he was incredibly smart, he had his own place, he didn’t smoke, and he was great at snogging. And she’s always had a thing for a man in glasses. That night, however, he drops her off at home, and kisses her on her doorstep. “Good night, Molly Hooper.”

“Good night, Jim Moriarty,” she said, brushing his long bangs out of his eyes.

The next morning, Jim texts her: “Thinking of you. Will be busy today. Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t,” she texts back. “Thinking of you, too.”

But that’s actually the last time she thinks about him, because her day is swamped, trying to fend off paparazzi and other vultures from the latest body to transfer to St. Bart’s: Connie Prince. Thankfully, the morgue locks are in place, but she’s too busy dealing with administration and security to ensure proper precautions, that any thoughts of Jim fly out the window. Then she hears from Meena that Lestrade brought Holmes and Watson in to examine Connie Prince’s body, and she wants to tear her hair out. Molly does, not Meena or Connie Prince.

It’s at that point that she picks up her phone to call Jim, but thinks better of it. After all, she hates it when people call her while she’s busy, so she’s fairly sure he’s the same. Especially with how impatient they both are with the stupidity of people and all that. She sighed, then shrugged. “Fine, I’m not waiting,” she told her phone, and put it away. She ended up going out with some of the office girls, although she felt the odd out, being the oldest in the party, and ended up drinking far too much to cover her awkwardness.

The awkwardness was not relieved by the incredible hangover she had the next morning, and she spent longer than she wanted trying to recover from said hangover. On top of that, there were a dozen elderly bodies waiting to be processed when she staggered into the morgue, one of which seemed to bear witness to being ground zero. Initial report said “gas leak”, but as she went through each and every one of them, she could tell whoever made that report was an idiot. Hangover or not, there was no way the smell from these bodies, as well as victim zero, indicated such a ridiculous notion, and she found herself imbibing the sports drinks from the vending machine in order to counterbalance her queasiness.

She’d finally made it to a lunch break, but she only had time to down the canteen coffee sludge and a pathetic sandwich when she was called in for a supposed drown victim. It seemed Lestrade and Holmes had already gone through it, and she sighed at the loss of pertinent information. Still, she does her job, and then some, when Meena called in to beg off, having a worse hangover than herself. Molly had rolled her eyes, but agreed, then took a short break to go down to the IT department. Hang his “busy”-ness, she was going to see her boyfriend, especially if it was going to be another long day.

Oddly enough, he was nowhere to be found, and his boss said he hadn’t shown up for work since yesterday. Molly frowned. Something’s very wrong here, but she wasn’t about to panic just yet. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” she said.

“Perhaps,” the hefty man shrugged, “but if there is, Jim never gave one. Good thing he was only a temp worker, but he was a damn good one. Never seen anyone pick up the system so quick.”

She nodded. “That sounds like him. Well, if he shows up, let me know,” she smiled briefly, and he nodded back.

The rest of the day was boring after that, finishing up reports on the twelve elderlies, plus the hefty waterlogged vic, which she found were connected to each other, as well as Connie Prince and even the odd-looking trainers left at the lab, thanks to Sherlock Holmes. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. They could put a dead sherpa, a wad of chewing gum, and the prime minister’s toupee in front of Holmes and he’d somehow connect them in some mad fashion. But she was tapping her foot by 8 P.M. and started to go a little mad half an hour after that. Molly ended up going out to a nearby restaurant, simply because she was bored and hungry, and yes, hoping for a glimpse of her boyfriend. What kind of man leaves his job and girl without a word? she thought to herself, and pursed her lips. She pulled out her phone and texted: “Where the hell are you? Skipped out on work and me. It’s not like you.”

She hit “send”, and frowned. Then again, what did she really know about him? It’s only been, what, five days, and all she knows about him personally is superficial. She knows nothing about his family, or previous jobs, or previous girls, for that matter. Then she gets a call from St. Bart’s that another body’s come in, an elderly woman, choked to death. “Well, good job that I’m done with dinner,” she murmured, and picked up her jacket. The next comment had her running back to work, because they said it had something to do with Holmes.

Dammit, she thought, working off whatever calories she might’ve picked up, it figures that idiot would raise the body count!

It’s that heady combination of anger and indignation that takes her through the rest of the night, then into a cab, and finally collapsing in her bed. And then, for the first time since she met Jim Moriarty, she sleeps a dreamless sleep.


	4. A Scandal in Belgravia

April 1.

Molly Hooper woke up to the sounds of someone hitting her doorbell repeatedly, making her want to do the same to the visitor. For better or worse, she’d gone to bed in her work clothes, minus the lab coat, and she answered the door fully clothed, but with a vicious case of bedhead and sore attitude. “What?” she glared dully at the men.

For it wasn’t just one visitor, but three. D.I. Lestrade, Holmes, and Watson. The Un-wise Men, she supposed, or perhaps, more accurately, the Three Stooges. “Are you all right?” Lestrade asked.

“I was, until you woke me up at 5 A.M. on my day off,” she retorted. She smothered a yawn with her right hand. “Fine, come in,” she sighed, and let them into her flat. “What’s this about?”

“It’s about your, um, boyfriend,” Lestrade says, but now his eyes are looking at anywhere but her.

She stared at him, then at the other two men. They looked like they’d gone through the wringer, and that was putting it gently. “What happened? Is he dead?”

“I wish,” Watson surprised her with his vehemence, and she frowned. “You might want to sit down, Dr. Hooper.”

She looked at each of them, not trusting where this was going. “All right,” she said finally, and sat down on the chair. Obit started to come out of her bedroom, saw there was unfamiliar company, and ran back into her bedroom. She wished she had the same option as her black cat, but instead, she faced them. “What’s going on with Jim?”

Lestrade sat on the couch near her, while Watson sat on the other end and Holmes leaned against the side where Watson was sitting, that is, as far away from her as possible. “Miss Hooper, this might be a bit much for you to take in, but it seems your boyfriend’s real job was planning crimes,” Lestrade said, in a tone that said he almost didn’t believe it himself. “We’ve been going around the past couple of days chasing after him, and the people he’d strapped Semtex vests to, only to find it was just a game of cat and mouse between him and Sherlock here.”

“What?” Molly stared at the curly-headed man. “You must be joking. He might be a right bastard, but he wouldn’t--”

“When was the last time you’ve seen him?” Lestrade interrupted her.

“Um,” she frowned, forcing her mind to think beyond the deadly combination of shock and sleep-deprivation, which she hadn’t done since med school, really. “About two nights ago. We had dinner at the Fox.”

Holmes and Watson looked at each other, while Lestrade’s forehead wrinkled. “Any communication since then?”

She frowned again. “He texted me, said he was busy yesterday morning. He didn’t show up to work, either.” Then she looked at Lestrade hard. “That looks bad, doesn’t it?” she added.

“No worse than what he’s already done.” Lestrade said. Then he glanced at Holmes, who looked away. “So he kept out of sight after the initial ‘greeting’, smart of him.”

Molly stared at them again. “You’re really serious,” she said slowly, “you think Jim’s some kind of evil mastermind…” She laughed in spite of the stark allegations. “Are you sure not just having me on, getting back at me for being a rude bitch?”

“Trust me, having an explosives-laden vest strapped on wasn’t a joke, or the laser sights from various snipers on my chest,” Watson said tightly, the wrinkles in his face deepening. “And it was no joke for the others who were similarly held hostage. Or for the victims whose deaths he’d planned on behalf of others.” His face, his voice, was nothing but sincerely shaken, angry, and yes, even a little scared, but in front of all that, he was sincere.

This is mad, Molly thought, utterly, truly mad. This is a world where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are the heroes, and Jim Moriarty is – “Are you saying Jim Moriarty was behind the bodies I had to process for the past couple of days?” she said, her face paling.

“He told you his full name,” Holmes said, but it wasn’t his usual gentle or wheedling tone, but sharp, sarcastic. “And yet, you’re still alive. He probably thought you weren’t worth his time to play with.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said in a warning undertone.

“No,” the dramatic man strode over to face Molly head-on, “he thought it was amusing to insinuate himself into your life, only to taunt me in passing. I wouldn’t have paid attention to it, because I’m usually mocked anyways.” Molly didn’t give him the satisfaction of blushing or turning away, but faced him evenly. “He counted on me ignoring him for that, counted on being ‘too obvious’, and when he showed his true colors last night, showing up personally after kidnapping John and holding him hostage, then I realized how absolutely clever he was to have played us all. Yes, all of us, including a certain pathologist with misadryst tendencies, an unforgiving and defensive attitude, and a martyr’s belief that she isn’t appreciated for her intelligence and competence because of her plain appearance and weaker gender.” Then he leaned into her space, but she still wouldn’t look away. “If I knew that within the first five seconds of meeting you, then Moriarty would’ve known how to manipulate you within a minute after reading your blog. I’m afraid he didn’t even mention you when he confronted us as himself, although he did take great pride in flaunting his false identity.”

She felt as if he’d torn whatever pride she had to shreds, but she refused to break down in front of them. Lifting her chin, she said, “Knew that charming bit was all an act. Must make you feel good to let loose, then.”

He stood up, glaring down at her. “You are the stupidest woman--!” he began.

“We didn’t want you to see this on the news,” Lestrade broke in as he dragged Holmes away, “we thought you should know personally.” Now Holmes glared at him, but Lestrade only looked tired.

Right. Fine, she thought to herself. Then she stood up, surprising them all. “I wish Jim had the balls to break up with me in person,” she said, steel entering her voice, “so I could break each and every one of his bones.” She brushed her hair away from her face. “Perhaps I should be thankful that he never cared about me in the first place, or I would’ve been a pawn with an explosive vest, too.”

“If you want, we can put a guard out for you,” Lestrade started, but she waved him off.

“Apparently, he’s done for now, judging by the fact that you are all still alive,” she said. “Besides, there’s nothing for him here to hold his interest, if what you say is true.”

“Miss Hooper,” Watson said, looking pained.

“Oh please, I know you all dislike me, stop trying to be nice to me now,” she glared. “Now get out before I use the kitchen knives on you.”

The D.I.’s eyebrows rose, but they all filed out of there quietly. Well, mostly quiet, for she could hear Lestrade’s voice from the hall before the door closed, “They were almost meant for each other, huh?”

As soon as the door shut firmly, she put a fist to her mouth, tears spilling down her face. Then she started swearing, ignoring her nose joining her eyes in waterworks, and started pulling out cups and smashing them against the tile. Over and over, she smashed them, until she was out of cups, and she moved on to the plates. “I hate you,” she cried, “I hate you, God, I HATE YOU SO MUCH!” But she’s not sure who she hates most, Jim, or the men who just left, or herself.

When she came back April 2, the pitying looks from her coworkers made her snap rather than cry, so they stopped and went back to their usual resentful or bored looks. Lestrade attempted to check up on her every so often, but she practically bit his head off and taunted his marriage on top of it, which made him back off. She bought replacement cups and plates from the market, but noticeably less in quantity than before. And by June, the morgue had finally gotten a replacement for both Franklin and Caroline, but only one of them was marginally competent in her eyes. So far, everything had returned to normal, and she was thankful that there were no further surprise visits from either Holmes or Watson, or at least, they came over when she wasn’t on duty, which was something of a relief.

Other things had changed, however. She enrolled in martial arts classes rather than anger management, and when she learned that she couldn’t beat up anyone straight off, but had to re-learn things like patience and practice, she nearly lost her patience. Molly gave it time, due to her stubbornness, so by the time they’d gotten around to sparring with partners, her body had become more toned, but her attitude had relaxed, so nobody got seriously injured. She surprised herself by staying on, partly because she actually enjoyed this form of exercise, and partly because of Daniel, a cute bank manager originally from Australia, who was flirty with her off the mat.

She’d also bought a small, cheap digital camera, but after trying to take artsy photos of various subjects, she gave up and just started taking pictures of the sky. Somehow, that relaxed her more than anything, and she didn’t care if she looked like a nutter, whether it was the usual London grey sky or an unusual blue, Molly’s camera pointed upwards. Occasionally, she’d catch a jet or a bird in the shot, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the result that she was after, since she deleted all the photos by the end of the day, but just the act of looking up. “Perhaps I’m getting too bloody Zen for my own good,” she murmured.

And having Obit around was good for her, too, even though Meena would teasingly threaten her with a gay best friend. Molly had retorted she had no need, since Meena was more than enough of a drama queen to qualify. Besides, her cat reminded her, aside from Daniel, that every so often, that physical touch could be relaxing and gratifying. And Obit was rather loud and playful for a cat, so she didn’t have to guess if he was hungry or happy or bored. “It’s too bad people aren’t like cats,” Molly murmured to Obit one night after a particularly trying shift, “you can verbalize without using words. People use words and aren’t clear at all.”

In December, she ignores an invite to a Christmas party at Holmes and Watson’s flat from Lestrade. It was an odd invitation in the first place, since she’d almost forgotten about them, not really having seen them since April. Then there’s the fact that she’s too busy with arranging a work party with Meena for that same time, as well as seeing Daniel every chance she got. Unfortunately, he planned to go back home for the holidays, which was entirely understandable, but it would make the season extremely boring. And because the work party was on Christmas Day, nobody could escape working there, which was Molly’s intention.

And that’s when she found herself opening the morgue on Christmas night to a government official so high up, his clearance practically opened the hospital doors before him. Unfortunately, Mr. Mycroft Holmes happened to bring his younger brother Sherlock in with him to identify a woman’s body. The Jane Doe had come in earlier that day, a victim of such a savage beating to the face that she was barely recognizable, and Molly surprised herself by inwardly wishing Sherlock luck with that. She thought it was odd, however, that the rest of the woman was untouched, especially with a body like that. And she thought it even odder when Sherlock asked, “Please, show me the rest of her,” after she’d pulled the sheet down to reveal the hamburger that was the woman’s face.

After she did so, he scanned the body, almost absently, with his eyes, then turned to walk away. “That’s her,” he said.

“Thank you, Dr. Hooper,” the elder Holmes said.

Molly nodded as she re-covered the body. “He actually loved her, didn’t he,” she said flatly.

The balding man raised his eyebrows. “Interesting observation coming from you,” he remarked as he walked out.

Molly was about to retort, but for once, held her tongue, since he held a sinister edge behind that seemingly benign expression. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, thankful that she didn’t have to deal with the ID of the drug overdose in the room down the corridor, that was just too emotional, as opposed to seeing the detached Holmes brothers. Speaking of which… She looked down at the Jane Doe, a thoughtful frown on her face.

Of course, now that her streak of going Holmes-less has been broken by two Holmes brothers after eight months, she ends up seeing him again on New Year’s Day. “Your girlfriend is as demented as you are,” she said when she saw him in the lab x-raying an extremely expensive phone.

“What do you mean?” he said, sounding both distracted and focused in his usual mad fashion, staring at the computer screen.

She shook her head. “I took the liberty of autopsying the Jane Doe, since it brought the attention of not one, but two Holmses,” she said, and she was a little gratified to see that he looked away from the computer and at her in alarm. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that some idiot messed with the paperwork, probably deliberately, to make Jane Doe seem as much like this Irene Adler is supposed to be.” She shrugged. “Like I said, your girlfriend must be demented if she has someone else’s head bashed in for her sake, or leaving her pricey phone with you only to have it x-rayed. You must really enjoy your little games.”

He frowned at her. “She’s not my--”

Molly waved him off. He must be the idiotic genius in the world, she thought. “Of course she’s your girlfriend, or at the very least, you’re acting like a besotted boy. People in love do stupid things, including flirting badly and obviously. In her case, badly, and in your case, obviously.” Her eyebrows rose of their own accord when she saw there were explosives in the phone, but felt that was too obvious to remark upon, as he’d been staring at them for the past however many minutes.

He pouted further, and Molly was this close to losing her recently-acquired Zen cool, when his eyes shot wide open. “She sent this to my address, and she loves to play games!” He grabbed the phone out of the x-ray machine and started typing something she couldn’t see, but could hear as four characters long. It must’ve been the wrong thing, because there was a warning beep and his face fell accordingly, followed by his bottom back onto the seat.

Molly rolled her eyes, then walked out. “If there’s another body with its face bashed in, I hope it looks like yours,” she shot over her shoulder. In fit of pique, however, she sends him back the riding crop as a belated Christmas gift, and sends his flatmate a roll of duct tape. She’s got a feeling the latter might need it more than he lets on. And then she booked a trip to Australia, because she needs to go on holiday herself.


	5. The Reichenbach Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, I decided to make it Season 3 compliant! Sorta... Will be slinking over to fix the fanfic.net version soon ;D

1 June.

Things have been quiet I the morgue, at least in terms of Holmes and Watson sightings. Then in March, there was a Moriarty sighting, at least on the news. Molly had held her breath, wondering if he’d show up like a bad penny, but thankfully, she was below his radar. After all, she’d only just gotten over Daniel, who broke her heart after the holidays when she learned not only was Australia his home, but that his family (that is, wife and children) were there, too. For once, she refrained from blowing up immediately, but instead, put a note into Daniel’s wife’s hand the day she left, telling her everything. After all, she didn’t have to be the one to blow up, that could be the wifey’s job, should she stay with that prick.

So there she was, reading the papers on Moriarty’s (she couldn’t call him “Jim” any more, that was too familiar for a man she didn’t want to be familiar with) trial, and then they let him go. She almost had a heart attack when she read that. She knew he did something unspeakable, something horrible, to persuade the jury to free him from serving time for crimes he obviously committed. After all, that showy three-ring circus he’d put on was to prove he could do it, right? And the fact that he was declared “not guilty” only underlined it. Molly narrowed her large brown eyes. “Holmes,” she muttered. “Dammit. It’s Holmes all over again.”

So she wasn’t surprised when Holmes and Watson greet her as she was leaving for a semi-optimistic lunch date. “Molly,” Holmes said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his ice blue eyes.

“Leaving for a lunch date,” she said boldly, attempting to dodge his hands grasping for her shoulders.

“Cancel it,” he said as Watson corralled her towards the taller man like a sheepdog herding a recalcitrant sheep towards a wolf. “You’re having lunch with me.” He reached in to his coat pocket and dramatically pulled out a packet of Quavers crisps.

She laughed out loud, she couldn’t help it. “That’s not even real food,” she grumbled.

He made a face, seemingly insulted and shoved the packet back into his pocket. “Need your help. It’s one of your old boyfriends, we’re trying to track him down.” While they were talking, he and his blonde-ish friend are walking her back towards the way she came. “He’s been a bit naughty.”

Molly’s eyes automatically scanned the corridor, even as her face turned towards him. “Please don’t call him that. I don’t want people to associate him with me ever again.”

Holmes sighed, a gusty dramatic wind flying from his chest. Jeez. “Yes, and for the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly.” He leaned in and murmured in an undertone, “I read about what you did in Australia. Nice work.” As she paled, he tossed the crisps at her, which she caught automatically, and he and his pet walked through the fire door.

So yes, he blackmailed her into helping them run lab tests on samples they’d gotten from who knows where. He could’ve just asked me, she thought resentfully as she brought in loads of data books, but then again, she would’ve firmly if not politely declined, so she supposed he used the only viable option. Interesting. She caught him muttering about oil, and an hour later, he ordered, “I need that analysis.”

Hold on to your knickers, she wanted to chide him, but Watson, rather than Holmes, had impressed upon her the urgency of their lab work. She squeezed the liquid sample into a glass dish and applied the litmus paper to it. When the paper turned blue, she reported, “Alkaline.”

“Thank you, John,” he said automatically.

She raised her eyebrows. That was interesting. “Molly,” she corrected him firmly.

“Ah, yes,” he blinked, then went back to making notes on the sample findings. So, Watson was more than a pet, she thought. How on earth did that happen? Some time later, he murmured, “I owe you.” Before she could ask what the hell that was about, he said clearly, “Glycerol molecule.” He sighed, “What are you?”

“What did you mean ‘I owe you’?” Molly asked, curious. Holmes, rather than answer her immediately, instead looked up from his microscope and tracked Watson as he made his way across the lab. She said, “Sherlock.” He turned to her, partly out of shock that she’d use his first name, and partly because it seems he automatically seemed to respond to his first name being used. Hm. “You said ‘I owe you’ while you were working.”

He hunched over the microscope again. Nice try, she thought, but you can’t hide. “Nothing,” he murmured, “mental note.”

She shook her head, ready to grab the microscope away and stare for herself, when something occurred to her. “You’re a bit like my dad,” she said, “he’s dead.”

“Molly, I hope you mean to say your father was incredibly brilliant and charming,” Holmes said to the microscope, “because I’m currently alive.”

She quirked one side of her mouth. In a way, she was glad she ditched her lunch date, since he seemed boring compared to all this. There was a 50-50 chance that he would’ve turned out all right, but then again, helping to find kidnapped children and avoiding any more blackmail seemed infinitely more preferable. She went on in a low voice, “When he was, well, dying, he was always cheerful, a bit like your friend there. Well, my dad was like that, except once when he thought no one could see. That one time, he looked sad.”

“Molly,” Holmes sighed.

She folded her arms, looking levelly at him. “You look sad when you think he can’t see you.” And, as if she’d commanded it, he looked up from the microscope and glanced at Watson, who was himself rather oblivious to their convo. “Are you all right?” she asked him. His eyes swung back to her, but she interrupted him before he could answer, “And if you say yes or fine, I’ll punch you in the face. Especially if you’re looking sad when you think nobody can see you.”

He frowned. “But you can see me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not your friend, so it doesn’t matter.” But she looked away, because this was the first time she was saying anything nice to this man, and now she was going to place herself on his side, not Moriarty’s. “But if you want me to be, your friend, I mean, I will,” she stuttered, suddenly unsure of herself. “If you want.”

“If I want?” he stared at her, as if she’s grown two extra heads and five extra arms.

Now she looked at him, straight on. “Or if you need. That makes more sense. I’ll be your friend only if you need me, because I doubt you’d want me as your friend.” Now her cocky smile slid back onto her face. “I’m gonna go out and get something decent to eat. You two lock up before you get into your trouble, or I’ll have your heads.”

After a few hours, Molly scans the rise and fall of Holmes and Watson. First, with their helping the police find the kidnapped kids, only to hear some time later that the media (and apparently the police) declared Holmes a fake and that he was the one who kidnapped the kids in the first place, and apparently, he’s on the run now, with or without Watson, depending on the tabloid. She rolled her eyes. New Scotland’s full of idiots if they think that man could be arsed to fake every stupid thing he’s done over the years, she frowned as she grumbled inwardly, and so is the media. She switched off the lights from the office, sighed heavily, and started to walk out of the lab.

“You’re wrong, you know,” a voice says from the darkness as she opened the door.

She gasps, spinning towards the voice. “Dammit!” she glared as the door shut, surprised that she had her head on enough not to say his name. “What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.

He continues on, as if he didn’t hear her. “You do matter. You’ve always mattered, and I’ve always trusted you, even if you didn’t think so.”

Molly gave him a half-smile. “What the hell have you got yourself into, Sherlock Holmes?”

It was hard to see in the half-light, but a corner of his mouth went up at his full name. “You were right about one thing. I think I’m going to die,” he said calmly, walking towards her.

She stared at him, and he stared right back, although much closer than she thought was necessary. A stray thought occurred to her: _In another life, I could fall in love with those pale eyes and that thin face. It’s a shame he seems halfway decent only when he’s about to die._ She’s not sure what that says about her sanity, and drops that line of thought immediately. “So, what do you want from me?” she asked, surprised that her voice is still firm.

“You’ve been reading the news,” he said, and she nodded. “Then you know I want a friend.” And now he’s right in front of her.

She smiled briefly. “No, you idiot, what you need is a friend. But thanks, anyways.” And she grabbed him by the hand and out of the light.

Later, Molly’s still at St. Bart’s, but she’s not in the lab. No, she left Holmes to wait for Watson there while she was busy making preparations. Holmes had wanted to do everything, but she’d nearly slapped him silly. He’d made the unfortunate remark about “you would’ve gotten along great with Irene” and she left in a huff towards the morgue, only to realize moments later that that’s what he’d wanted all along. Stupid git.

Well, not entirely. After all, he’d told her to look for a man who’d recently been killed who looked very like him, saying it was probably the same man who kidnapped the children and killed to tie up loose ends. When she found him among the recently dead, his hair dyed blonde and labeled a John Doe, she shook her head. It was one of the newbies who tagged him, he wouldn’t have known who Holmes was, and definitely wouldn’t have put the two and two together. He looked close enough like Holmes to be a relation, more so than that Mycroft Holmes. As per instructions, she re-dyed his hair, and it was eerie to see the resemblance. She was about to text him, but remembered that he didn’t want to be distracted while talking with Watson, no, John. So she went about getting things ready for the fall. And he would take a fall, whether it was in the public view or in front of a small audience, Holmes was very clear on that.

Once things were in place, it was past midnight, and she yawned. Nothing yet from Holmes, which meant nothing yet from Moriarty. Yawning again, she set her alarm for 8 A.M. optimistically, pulled out a folding cot from the closet, and pulled a blanket over herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d be sleeping near a corpse, but she hoped for Holmes’ sake it would be the last, or she’d make him the corpse.

It seemed like only half an hour later (but was actually morning) that she received the terse text “LAZARUS IS GO”. She yawned, stretched, and dressed the body, the extra Belstaff and blue scarf coming in handy as a shorthand disguise over obviously cheaper clothing. The body was nice and pliable now, the rigor mortis having left it a couple of hours ago, and she made it a point to blow some cigarette smoke over it. Sure, she knew Holmes was quitting, but she knew a smoker when she saw one, and it covered the corpse smell temporarily. She undid the locks on the gurney wheels, and waits for the two official-looking men join her in the morgue, even though the doors were locked. As they take control of the gurney, she leads them towards the loading elevator, and they all take their positions in the marked room.

She stands by the window, only to see Holmes fall past her. She can’t help but peer down, and the sudden tight feeling in her chest is relieved when he hits the airbag spot on. As the crew below go through their choreographed business, moving the airbag and live Holmes out of place as Watson starts to make his way over, the two men grab the body. “Ugh,” she mutters as she helps them throw it out the window, her dark eyes dispassionate as the homeless biker hits Watson. She turns and starts to walk away. “Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen,” she says flatly.

“Dr. Hooper,” one of the men says, catching her by the arm.

She spins around, irritated. “Oh, what, now?” she snarls.

“Something for your troubles,” he says, and hands her an envelope.

She opens it to find a cheque with a lot of zeroes after the first number, and makes a face. “He’d better not blow up my flat, or this exercise will be for nothing.” The other man snorted softly, but they both left the room with no further words. She slips it into her trouser pocket, then goes back down to the morgue to change the records for the criminal’s body as that of Sherlock Holmes.

It was disturbing how relatively easy forging a death on paper was, but then, Holmes knew she was a dab hand at paperwork as corpses. Ah well. At least she needn’t worry about Watson hounding her for the truth, he didn’t much like her in general and she had her reservations about his sanity as well. _What does it say for my sanity,_ she wonders, as she hangs the heavy Belstaff on one of her hangers in the locker, _that I’m helping Holmes myself?_

As the Holmes brothers expected, the only visit she received concerning the “suicide” came from DI Lestrade, who barely glanced at the corpse’s face when she uncovered it. There were no follow-ups beyond that, and she waited until the next shift came in before she went home. Of course, it was the newbies who came in, and they made the predictable shocked noises, as if their job wasn’t to deal with dead bodies on a daily basis.

“Are you, are you happy that he’s dead?” the less brighter and more louder of the two asked, while the other gasped.

“No more or less happy than if you were on the slab,” Molly said briskly, and God, she wished she didn’t work with such idiots, they were scared enough to back away from her. She went shopping after work, then went home on the Tube.

And promptly came upon Sherlock Holmes, dressed in a ridiculous hoodie and sweatpants, moodily curled up on her couch. He didn’t move when she walked in, and she rolled her eyes. “How long will you be staying over?” she asked as she started putting the food away.

“Until Mycroft sends for me.” Ah, his disturbingly-powerful older brother. Lovely.

“Fine,” she says, “I’ve got cheap alcohol if you need to go to sleep, protein bars and sandwiches if you need to eat. Good night.”

“He gave you a large cheque and you only bought _cheap_ alcohol?” he muttered from the depths of her couch.

“Posh git,” she snorted, and walked into the bathroom. When she walked out, her long hair finally dry and dressed in nightclothes and a bathrobe, she could smell alcohol and hear his light snores. She sighed and pulled an extra blanket from the closet, covering him up. Then she went to her bedroom, locked the door, and slept a dreamless sleep.

When she woke up, he was gone, along with a sandwich and the box of protein bars. She sighed, then filled Obit’s food bowl as her coffee began percolating. Her black cat finally made his appearance, and she smiled. “Lucky you’ve got nine lives,” she murmurs, bending down to pet him when he finished scarfing down his meal, “Holmes only has one.” And for some odd reason, that made her wish him luck, if just a little. After all, as she’d told the government men, it would be a waste of her efforts for him to muck it all up.


	6. The Empty Hearse

2 November.

 

Molly stretches and yawns, then walks to the locker room. It’s been a long day, and she can’t wait to wash off and go home. As she opens her locker, she hears a deep male voice behind her say, “Coffee?”

 

She turns around. There is Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead, with what appears to be remnants of a bloody nose and split lip. She smirks, taking the styrofoam cup from his hands. “Watson finally gave you a Glasgow kiss, did he?” She sipped carefully, surprised it had two creams, two sugars. Not bad.

 

He looks put out. “It wasn’t expected.”

 

The long-haired woman sighed. Honestly, people thought _she_ had social problems! He’s practically a child! “You killed yourself in front of your best friend, Holmes, stayed dead for all intents and purposes for two years, and you expect things to go back the way they were when you come back? Pretty naïve, even for you.”

 

“Apparently,” he said, his pout getting deeper.

 

“Good luck with the rest of your friends,” Molly smirked, raising her cup.

 

He blinks. “Why didn’t you punch me?” he asks honestly.

 

“You got me coffee,” she said, “and it looks like Watson did a better job than I’ll ever do. Cheers to him.”

 

She drinks down the rest of the coffee when he leaves, then grabs her things before getting into the shower. Whatever his two years dead has taught him, it obviously didn’t teach him how to properly reunite with friends. She doesn’t count, of course, she’s not his friend.

 

Which is why she’s surprised to hear from him the next day. “Dr. Hooper?” Holmes’ voice says from the mobile she’s automatically picked up.

 

Dammit. She yawns a jaw-cracking yawn. It’s her day off, and for once, she thought she’d have a lie-in. “Yeah?”

 

“Would you like to solve crimes?”

 

She pulls the phone away from her face. It’s past bloody noon. Well, it _was_ a proper lie-in, until now. “Sure, why not,” she says, surprised at the words coming out of her mouth.

 

“Great! Er, all right, then,” he says. “Come to 221B when you’re done with breakfast.”

 

“Street?” she says.

 

There’s a pause. “Baker,” he answers, mildly surprised.

 

From what she can recall, it’s close to Marylebone. “All right, then.” And she hangs up. “Ugh, like I’ve got nothing better to do.” Well, that was actually the truth. Cleaning out Obit’s litter box, feeding him, and having a cup of tea was all she’d planned for the day, and she got that done in about six minutes. “Right.” And in about six more minutes, Molly took a quick shower and brushed her teeth. Since she was only dealing with Holmes, she didn’t feel the need to do anything to her hair except tie it up.

 

She threw on a busy-looking print blouse, followed by a colorful sweater and plain trousers, then grabbed a coat and scarf, because it was nippy out, and took the Tube over. The flat wasn’t hard to find, and it was odd, coming here on a whim. She figured Watson was still angry with the idiot and was staying out of Holmes’ way for a while, and she didn’t blame him. “Hello, dear,” an older woman greets her at the door with a smile, looking far too normal to be someone associated with Holmes. “Dr. Hooper, is it? I thought you’d be much older.”

 

Molly smiles and bites back her common retort of eating the hearts of innocents to look young. Considering how often Holmes has tried to steal body parts from her, the old woman would probably believe her. “Molly Hooper,” she says, sticking out her hand.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m the landlady,” the older woman smiles, taking her hand. “Sherlock’s upstairs.” She turns and calls up, “Sherlock! Molly’s here!”

 

The long-haired brunette blinked. Well. First names already. All right. “Thanks,” she said, and made her way upstairs.

 

She wasn’t surprised to find the flat looking a bit messy in the bachelor sort of way, although the layers of dust on the tops of things higher than the landlady tended to have a bit more dust on them. Ah, so Watson doesn’t live here any more. It’s just Holmes. And that’s why she’s sitting in for his best friend. Strange. So is the living room being brighter and warmer than she expected, so she takes off her coat. “So, what do I do?” she asks.

 

Holmes smiles briefly and gestures towards a metal-framed chair, ostensibly from the dining set, next to a leather armchair. “You may sit here, and,” he trails off, waving his hand. “Be my assistant,” he finishes.

 

She rolls her eyes, then puts her coat on the seat back. “Very specific, Holmes.”

 

He makes a face. “Please, call me Sherlock.”

 

“Are you sure that’s your real name?” she asks, although if his parents were cruel enough to name their eldest “Mycroft”, anything is possible.

 

Holmes, no, _Sherlock_ , sighs. “Yes, it is,” he says, “please, Molly.”

 

“Fine,” she sighs. “How does Wat, er, John, assist you?”

 

The tall man frowns. “He sits pleasantly in that chair, takes notes in a notepad, and makes comments.”

 

Molly blinks. She’s fairly sure the landlady could do as much. Oh well, she was bored enough to come by. “Fine,” she says again, pulling out her notepad, “I’ll be John.”

 

“No,” he blinks in turn, “you should be yourself.”

 

She nods briskly, her eyebrows only bobbing up when Mrs. Hudson calls out, “The Harcourts are here!” This should be different.

 

And it was. Mr. Harcourt was talking some nonsense about scientists with monkey glands, when it was obvious to a child that the wife was oblivious and the husband was talking crap. Holm – no, Sherlock – quickly surmised that the husband was cheating and offered Mrs. Harcourt a business card for a lawyer. Molly wondered if she could use Holmes as a lie detector for her future dates, since they’ve gone so horribly before.

 

After she escorts the belligerent husband and stunned wife out, he raises an eyebrow. “For you, I’d charge,” Holmes says.

 

She grins. “Ah, the great detective finally grows a pair,” she retorts.

 

“Hmph,” he mutters. “Next?”

 

The next is a mousy young woman and her step-father, and Molly forces herself to take notes rather than roll her eyes. It sounds like a boring little crush, which makes her wonder at Holmes fawning over the girl like a talk show host, patting her hand sympathetically and talking softly. When the girl finally breaks down and takes off her glasses to cry, the skinny detective stands and walks over to Molly.

 

“Her stepfather is posing as her online boyfriend,” he says in an undertone.

 

“What?” Molly stares at him.

 

“Breaks it off, breaks her heart,” Holmes continues in a low voice. “She swears off relationships, stays at home, and he still has her wage coming in.” He turns back to the stepfather. His voice is stern as he says, “Mr. Windibank, you have been a complete and utter--”

 

He doesn’t get to finish, because Molly Hooper has punched the bastard out. “What, what are you doing?” the girl stops crying to stare at the furious brunette.

 

Molly tells the girl in no uncertain terms what has happened, and the girl leaps to her feet, backing away from the man she was deceived by. “You have the right to press charges,” she continues, “against me or him, although I think they’d let me off light.”

 

Now the girl frowns. “Who are you?” she asks, looking at Molly, then at Holmes. “What happened to Dr. Watson?”

 

Molly smiles nastily down at the man who looks even worse than Holmes did yesterday. “The nice doctor’s out,” she said, “you’ve got the nasty one who deals with dead people.”

 

The girl stammers her thanks to Holmes and makes her escape, her step-father finally gathering enough bluster to snap at Molly until the pathologist makes another fist.

 

Holmes sighed. “You really shouldn’t enjoy yourself so much,” he said when the door downstairs closes.

 

Molly shrugged. “It’s not my fault the living are much more fun to punch,” she said, unapologetic, as she shook her hand out.

 

“Why did you punch Windibank and not Harcourt?” he asked, pulling out a first aid kit from under the dining table.

 

“Honestly?” she stared at him. “Harcourt’s an idiot, but so’s his wife. She’s a grown woman. That girl, Mary, was betrayed by her father, or someone who should have been. That was unacceptable.” She takes the kit from him and applies the plasters to her knuckles in an efficient manner, then hands the box back to him.

 

He smiled as he put the kit away. “I thought John had a trigger temper.” His mobile pings with a text, and his smile deepens. “Lestrade has something for us.”

 

The “something” DI Lestrade had was the skeleton mystery the tabloids had been raving about. Molly’s glad she’s not wearing anything fancy as they walk into the basement’s extra exit, a large hole leading to another room with a posh-dressed skeleton sitting at a dinner table. Cute. Holmes pulls out a toolkit from his ridiculously large coat, and pulls out a magnifying glass, sniffing at the clothes like a dog. It isn’t long before he starts muttering to himself, although it sounds suspiciously like he’s having a one-sided conversation.

 

Well, that’s one way to get things done, she thinks, walking over to the grey-haired man. “Just filling in for the day, Detective Inspector,” she says, sticking her hand out to shake.

 

He’s about to do so, when he notices the plasters on her hand. “What’s this, then?”

 

Oops. So much for a smooth transition. “Daddy issues,” she answered calmly. “I’m much better now.”

 

Holmes snorted, then straightened up. “She means that she had an issue with a client’s father, and took care of it.” He pulls out his mobile, looking as if to catch a signal.

 

A train rumbles overhead as Holmes steps back from the table, cement dust raining on them and the scene. “Well, then,” Molly says, and decides to have a look at Mr. Fancy Bones. She looks at the finger lengths and widths, the skull’s fused sagittal suture, and murmurs, “Male, forty to fifty.”

 

“Oh?” the DI says from the corner.

 

She nods, while Holmes appears to continue his monologue (or was it?) with a hissed, “Shut up!”

 

“What?” Lestrade asks as Molly glares at the curly-haired man.

 

Holmes shakes his head, his magnifier in front of his face to inspect the skeletal hand, while Molly straightens up with a frown. “This doesn’t make sense.”

 

“What doesn’t?” Lestrade asks as Holmes is blowing dust away from the edge of the table.

 

She looks at him, wondering if she should spell it out to a detective that this skeleton’s as clean, or cleaner than, the ones she’s processed for the medical school. She’s fairly sure it’ll be a John Doe, but the fact that it’s been touted as a national mystery irks her. “The skeleton can’t be more than six months old.”

 

The last three words are chorused with Holmes, who shrugs apologetically. It seems Mr. Genius can’t help but get a word in edgewise. Lovely. The unofficial detective opens what seems to be a hidden compartment from the table side and slides a book out. His face is unreadable as he shows the cover to Molly.

 

“How I Did It by Jack the Ripper” it reads.

 

How ridiculous is this? She laughs, and continues to do so as Lestrade reads the words aloud. “Impossible,” the older man grins.

 

“Welcome to my world,” Holmes makes a face, before briefly snapping at whatever’s in his head while he puts his toolkit away.

 

“Explain it, then,” the detective inspector says, folding his arms. Holmes blinks, then does just that, rearranging the picture Molly had pieced together into something oddly more coherent. “So the whole thing was a fake,” Lestrade sums it up.

 

“Yes,” Holmes is already heading out of the room.

 

“Why would someone go through all that trouble?” Molly frowned.

 

“Why indeed, John?” Holmes says, out of sight.

 

She turns her frown on the DI. “Should I have him checked for a concussion?”

 

Lestrade shakes his head. “He usually goes on a muttering streak, going through deductions at 90 miles a minute, probably kept it shorter and quieter because John isn’t around,” he says. “Go on, you’ll lose him on those long legs of his.”

 

She smiled briefly and walks out. When she catches up with Holmes (it’s still odd to think of him as a Sherlock), they wind up at a flat with a recording of “Mind the gap” instead of a buzzer. She’s surprised to see him hand the client a knit cap, as she’s sure he hadn’t seen him take it from his flat. God, how many pockets does Holmes have in that damn coat?

 

As they walk up, Howard Shilcott’s flat is as indicative of his obsession as Holmes’ is of his. There are model trains, photos of trains, and train knickknacks that she’s certain must cost more than she figures. Holmes listens to Shilcott’s story as the client sits down at his computer. The footage he shows them is appropriately strange, a man getting onto the Tube, but not getting off, and there’s no sign of him anywhere. Shilcott discounts Molly’s theory of jumping off the Tube (as if she knows the mechanics of the thing!), and find that the relevant staff are also gone.

 

“I know that face,” is the last thing Holmes says for a while, and Molly finds herself waiting at the bottom of the stairs when he goes into something like a fugue state at the top of the stairs, his eyes flickering at things only he can see. She really, really hopes he doesn’t have a concussion, and startles her when he rattles off train timelines and mutters about needing maps. Then he blinks, walks down the stairs, and says, “Fancy some chips?” Like they’d been having a conversation she’s missed.

 

She stares at him. “Are you concussed, or do you go into fugue states as well as muttering? Lestrade said you do the muttering thing a lot.”

 

He stared at her, then smiled. “Mind palace, it’s a memory device,” he said, “not a concussion or fugue state.”

 

That sounded vaguely familiar, from a psychology class or something. Ah, she’ll look it up tonight, perhaps. “You were saying chips?”

 

He nodded. “I know a fantastic fish shop just off Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions.”

 

Because God knows you need fattening up, she thinks. “How did you manage that?” she asked, as most shops were stingy with their chips, or perhaps it was just her.

 

“I helped him put up some shelves,” he answered blithely.

 

Liar. “Sherlock? Why’d you ask me along?” she wondered aloud. From what she could see, she didn’t have anything positive to contribute, which surprised her, actually.

 

“I wanted to say thank you,” he said.

 

She tilted her head. “Is this because I didn’t cash your brother’s cheque?”

 

Holmes pursed his lips. “You’re a good woman, Molly Hooper,” he said, “you should stop telling your coworkers that you have fiancée, he’s obviously false by the dated style of the ring. Your mother’s?”

 

She sighed, then nodded, resisting the urge to fiddle with her mother’s engagement ring. “I’m just tired of them setting me up with idiots,” she said, wishing he wasn’t so bloody observant, “it’s much better this way.” And ever since Meena’s engagement to Tom, her coworker’s been insufferable the last couple months doing just that, until Molly’s own sudden “engagement” happened.

 

“No, it’s not,” he disagrees, “lying about the important things is never better.”

 

How would he know? She thinks. He can get away with anything, including a fake suicide. A fake engagement is nothing compared to that. “I think we’re square now,” she says, not wishing to continue that line of inquiry. “You should eat and talk to Wat – er, John.”

 

He nods, smiling briefly, then walks out the door, turning right towards Marylebone. He doesn’t look back, nor does she expect him to. She hopes for his health’s sake that he actually stops off at that fish shop before going home.

 

She walked out after him, turning left instead of right. The appearance of light snow flurries slowly coating her London had her pulling out her camera instead of her gloves, and after unscrewing the lens cover, she points it upwards. She smiled wryly at herself after getting a few shots, put away her camera and pulled on her gloves, and heads to catch the Tube home.


	7. The Sign of Three

Molly Hooper still wasn’t quite sure when she got roped into doing wedding planner duties, but apparently, being the “Maid of Honor” entailed quite a bit of dishonorable duties. Like reminding the bride-to-be about appointments ranging from flower arrangements to obstetricians. Meena soon-to-be-Aylesworth had gotten pregnant ahead of schedule, and as a result, her wedding was pushed up six months earlier “so I won’t look fat”. Honestly. If that was the case for anything, nobody would get married, Molly thought to herself, as she juggled her own job on top of an unwanted one.

She actually turned down the job, er, “honor” at first, until Meena had told her that neither she nor her fiancé could afford a regular wedding planner, and while their friends were flaky enough, her sisters and parents were even more so. Apparently, Molly Hooper was the only one in Meena’s circle of friends with more than a bit of common sense, which was rather depressing prospects for the wife and mother-to-be, but that was neither here nor there. There was a wedding to plan, and the first thing Molly did was get her friend some ginger chews, because she’d heard they were good for nausea and Meena was looking a bit peaked. And then Molly blurted out her own engagement was a fake, and it wasn’t long before Meena was laughing weakly in between bouts of morning sickness.

She thought that being a friend of Sherlock Holmes was rough. That was before she was a friend to a pregnant woman who was about to get married in less than five months, and apparently, most “nice places” had wait lists of two years or more. How on earth did people get married, Molly wondered, unless they constantly eloped? She’d actually proposed a simple marriage license signing at one point, after arguing with five vendors and Meena’s obstetrician.

“It’s all right, Molly,” Meena said in one of her rare calm moments. “No matter what, it’s going to be a lovely wedding and we’re going to have a healthy baby. It’s just getting there that’s the kicker.”

Which led to Molly buying yet another bottle of whiskey and almost missing her mail. It seemed weddings were in the air, because she’d gotten an invite for Watson’s. Which happened to be on the same day as Meena’s. Well, that was simple, and she quickly replied with a negative. In a couple of days, she got a querulous query over the phone as to why she was declining, when she snapped, “My pregnant coworker’s getting married on the same day. I happen to be the bloody maid of honor and wedding planner for the bloody thing, so have fun with yours.”

There was a loud sigh. “I’m not surprised you’re her wedding planner, you have the most common sense there.” She would argue for her coworkers, but he was too right, unfortunately. “I happen to be the wedding planner and best man myself. I’ll just have to re-arrange the friend table, move the Doyles to the left ...” he murmured to himself. Then he appeared to remember he was on the phone, and said cheerfully, “Thanks for clearing that up, have a good wedding, and, er, baby!” And then he hung up.

 _God, he must be cracked,_ Molly thought. But she’s in the same boat, and developing a lovely alcohol addiction to boot. She hopes he won’t be hitting the drugs because of stress. Then she blinked. Who knows, the man gets off on solving crimes and absconding with human body parts, this could be like another puzzle for him.

She saw him and Watson off and on after that, but being diverted by her own wedding planning, she promptly forgot about that other one until Holmes, er, Sherlock came into the morgue asking her help for his stag do. “Murder scene locations?” she raises her eyebrows.

He nods enthusiastically. “Yep, pub-crawl themed. We’re going to go for a drink in every street where we--”

And she finishes the sentence with him, “Found a corpse. Delightful,” she rolled her eyes. She was about to grumble at him for dumping more onto her plate from his, when she saw how worn and pale he looked, and how much thinner he’d gotten. Then she barked, “Jacket off, now.”

He blinked, then took off his jacket. “I’m not using,” he started to say as she unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves.

She gave him a look that dared him to prove otherwise. “Is this the first time you’re delegating, or do you not want to pee in a cup?”

Holmes actually blushed, and she sighed. “Both?” he said.

“Ugh,” she made a face. Then again, she’d only learnt to delegate a month and a half ago herself, and that was because she was faring worse than Holmes did now. “Fine. What do you need?”

“Could you please calculate John’s ideal intake, and mine, to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening?” he said, pulling out a large folder from his coat of many pockets. He smiles nervously. “I lack the practical experience,” he says, his eyes quickly skittering away from hers and down to where he’s pasted a photo of Watson’s head on the Vitruvian Man in the file folder.

“So you’re saying I’m a drunk and you’re not,” she interpreted bluntly, causing him to sputter. She rolled up the top papers and smacked him on the head. “All right, when do you need this by?”

“Tonight?” he says nervously. Then he adds quickly, “I’ll stay out of the morgue for the rest of the week.” Then he blinked. “Unless Lestrade calls something in.”

She tilted her head back and groaned. “God, save me from idiots,” she grumbled up at the ceiling. Then she looked back at him to see him pouting at her. “You’re still here. Drat. Well, if this keeps you out of the morgue for the rest of the week, I’ll do it.”

He cheers up immediately and hugs her with surprisingly firm arms for such a skinny man. “Thank you!” he says, and practically skips out the door.

What a weirdo. And because she has to meet up with Meena, the dressmaker, and Meena’s sisters (the regular bridesmaids) that evening for the final fitting, she does the Holmes’ stag night calculations in record time, texts him the pertinent information, as well as instructions on how to play a Rizla game. Yes, she figures the idiot plays chess in his free time, but he might as well have one normal thing (aside from near-alcoholic poisoning) for his stag night. A couple of new bodies come in not long after that, and diverts her attention back to her job.

By the time August rolls around, Molly is done with every bloody bit of wedding minutiae out there, and is more focused on helping Meena deal with a new wardrobe and appearance. Thankfully, the dressmaker took Molly’s than Meena’s advice on how comfortable the dress should be, and while not the bride’s original design, the dress did look glorious. Tom was the perfect gent (aside from knocking the bride up earlier than planned) and was taking his fiancée to the obstetrician and comforting her when Molly was busy. As a result, when the wedding day finally rolled around, the couple was still in love with each other, the bridesmaids showed up on time (there was a worry with the youngest sister, but Molly drove her herself) and everything went smoothly (aside from the ring bearer tripping over himself, but then, Tom’s nephew was a rather eager little thing). 

Molly Hooper had always considered being a self-made, independent woman the most important thing, but the wedding was making her re-think the growing importance of connections, familial or otherwise. They’d only gotten the fancy church they did because Tom’s family happened to be long-time members, and Molly had never been more glad of churchgoers than she did five months ago when she found out that fact. She was also glad of the connections Meena’s family had within their community, and they’d rented the community center at a discount, which was a lucky thing, because not many venues could hold both the Aylesworths and the Bakshis and all their friends. Likewise, it was a good thing Meena’s sister Maitreyi was a professional chef, or nobody would be happy with the food.

Before she got too philosophical, the best man squawked, dragging her attention back to the reception. The best man was Tom’s married brother, so she didn’t have to worry about fending off attentions there, and it was obvious right there that Tom had not-so-politely stepped on his brother’s foot to stop him from telling another embarrassing story. “To the bride and groom,” he muttered quickly, and everyone hurriedly raised and drank from their glass.

“Your turn,” Meena nudged her, and Molly stood, her emerald dress two shades darker than the other bridesmaids, but the same design. It was one of the few non-funerary dresses Molly thought she’d keep, and she brushed her long hair out of the way so she could see what she was doing.

She was thankful they’d already had dinner, because she felt she just lost her appetite, and tried not to grip the glass stem too tightly. God, she hated public speaking. But she knew exactly what she’d say, and it was as short and to-the-point as she could make it. “I’d like to make a toast,” she said, “to the groom staying a good man and the bride staying a smart woman. To Tom and Meena Aylesworth!” She raised her glass, and downed it, and so did everyone else.

The MC announced a short break while they moved the tables and chairs, and the guests left for the loo or a quick smoke break. Molly turned to Meena. “Don’t cry,” she said, seeing the tears start to flood the bride’s eyes as the girls changed in the wedding party break room. “Shalini already reapplied your eyeliner, and you know how long that took.”

“Shut up,” the youngest sister grumbled, “I’m good at my job.”

Meena choked on her laughter. “Yes, you are,” she tried to console the sensitive Shalini. “Can I blame my hormones or the wedding finally being over for my emotional upheaval?”

“Both,” Molly said, and they all laughed.

“God, I wish I’ll have your figure if I ever get pregnant,” Maitreyi sighs as she hangs up the wedding dresses. “That’s so not fair.”

“I’m not ballooned yet,” Meena retorted, putting on her more colorful dress. “We’ll see how long you envy my figure in three months.”

The jangle of jewelry stopped as Maitreyi actually paused in thought. “Oh, never mind, then,” the second oldest sister blinked, and Molly snorted.

“Does this look right?” Molly asked, putting on the sari.

Meena paused, then grinned. “Almost,” and she pulled it off, only to shove it down Molly’s front, making the bridesmaids laugh.

“Oh, shut up,” Molly grumbled and threw it over her shoulder, knowing full well that she was the flattest out of the wedding party, not counting the boys. After dealing with Meena’s sisters, Molly was glad she had her four older brothers for once. She was afraid she might’ve killed any female siblings if they were as silly as Meena’s. “I can’t believe you’re making me dance, too.”

“Tradition,” Meena shook her numerous bracelets, and Molly rolled her eyes.

“Right, let’s see if your husband’s got changed into his new clothes,” the maid of honor said briskly, pulling out her mobile.

“Or I could make sure he’s out of his clothes, full stop,” Meena teased, and Molly threw up two fingers in reply.

After several more minutes and a few more touchups, Molly got the MC and the guests back in, the DJ set up, and made sure she had the right purse on the wedding table. The first dance was a traditional Indian dance with the bride and groom, both having practiced since they were officially engaged, followed by a traditional waltz. Then the bridesmaids, Molly included, did “Gangnam Style” (the right purse held all their sunglasses for said dance), followed by the best man and his wife doing the dance from “Pulp Fiction”, and half the guests doing another Indian wedding dance, which quickly devolved into club music after that.

Molly shook her head as she got Meena her third glass of water for the night. “I can’t believe you did all that dancing,” she said, “you of all people have the least reason to lose calories.”

“Well, we did meet at a ballroom dance class,” Tom shrugged.

Molly stared at him, then at her coworker, who grinned. “Honestly?”

Tom nodded as his bride chugged the water. “I was the only male who was single and straight, so I didn’t mind the attention. And then Meena came in and kicked my ass.”

“Just because you’re cute doesn’t mean you can get away with lack of technique,” Meena said, in a tone that spoke of long-standing argument and not-so-subtle second meanings.

“And on that awkward note, I’ll just leave you two to hash that out,” Molly shook her head with a wry grin.

She left the bottled water on the table, and walked out into the cool summer air. Then she pulled out her mobile and called a cab. Then she dialed another number, paused, and hit send. “Hello, Mum,” she said, “how are things?”

And allowed herself to be inundated by family stories for the rest of the evening. For the first time in decades. On purpose. Mercifully, the cab came halfway through her mother’s tales, so she was on her way home, at least. And while she fed Obit while listening with half an ear, Molly continued to murmur syllables of agreement.

She was just pulling out the whiskey bottle when her mother’s latest statement caught up to her brain. “Mum, just because I’ve got bad luck with men doesn’t mean I’m gay.” Didn’t mean she was bisexual, either, but she didn’t want to confuse her mother any more than she was. As her mother was making embarrassed noises, Molly went on, “Look, I know you mean well, but I’m fine. I just got my pregnant coworker married off, and I finally get to have more than four hours of sleep for the first time in a long time. Good night.”

As soon as Molly hung up, she decided to forgo cups and just drink from the bottle. After her day, no, especially after that last conversation, she deserved to have no alcohol limit. And once she got good and properly pissed, she slept for about ten hours.


	8. His Last Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last of it for a while, until Season 4 comes out & promises to tear our collective hearts out. Good times, I know, good times ;D Until then, have a great hiatus!

Her shift has barely started, along with the newbie she’s training, when her mobile rings. Molly Hooper groans when she sees the ID. “WHAT?” she snaps.

To her surprise, it isn’t Holmes who answers. “Dr. Hooper? This is Dr. John Watson. We need to test Sherlock.”

“This is a teaching hospital, why don’t you take him to your surgery?” Molly frowns.

There’s a sigh. “Because he needs a drugs test,” is the answer. “I’d check for opiates.”

“Good on you, John!” she hears in the background.

Yes, Holmes was obviously high on something. “Hi, Molly, how are you doing?” she makes her voice deep. “Oh, and can you hand me some body parts? Fake a suicide for me? Calculate optimal alcohol levels? Test for opiate drugs? I’m a pathologist, dammit, not your bloody gopher!” And she hit the “end” button, which didn’t have the same satisfying disconnect as slamming down the old-fashioned hospital line.

It had about the same effect on the newbie, however, and he ran from the room. Molly shook her head. _Well, at least it was the more incompetent one,_ she thought, going to get some coffee, _and I’m only dealing with paperwork today._

Then her mobile rang again. Same number. She let it go to her voice mail as she sipped her coffee. And rashly decided to listen when she was done with half her cup.

“Molly, sorry to bother you,” Holmes’ voice sounded frayed, but actually apologetic, “but could we use your lab to give me a urine test? John’s insisting on some kind of privacy, although I really don’t care--”

“Sherlock,” the doctor’s voice interrupted.

“—anyways, I hope you’re not too busy today,” Holmes went on. “Oh, how are Meena and… Tom? Yes, Tom,” he said to himself, “did you know Mary’s pregnant, too? I was the first to find out at the wedding, although it was your coworker’s pregnancy that had me keep an eye open for that sort of thing --”

“All right,” Watson interrupts again, “that’s enough.”

 _Holmes seems to think pregnancy is contagious, the way he talks about it,_ Molly thinks.

“You’re not still bothered that he realized it before you did, are you?” a female voice snarks. Oh. That must be Mrs. Watson. And this must be on speakerphone. Lovely.

“Anyways, can we come over? Please?” Holmes asks, as if he were five years old. A few other voices chime in with the “please”, and Molly frowns. “Okay, John looks like he’s going to kill me, bye!” The chorus of others cuts off in mid-“bye”.

Molly closes her eyes, thinks about it, and scowls. She redials the number, and isn’t surprised to get an immediate response. “I’m expecting a large payback from all of you,” she starts off.

“Sounds fair,” a knobby-like voice says, and Watson’s voice mutters, “Shut up.”

“How many of you are there?” Molly asks, starting to clear the place of anything that might be tempting for a junkie, like needles.

“Just five,” Mrs. Watson says.

The pathologist rolls her eyes. “Fine. But if I catch any of you doing anything untoward in my lab, I will take care of the problem by first killing you, then dissecting you, and finally incinerating your body parts so thoroughly even a genius couldn’t put you back together again. Got that?”

There are general groans of agreement, including an amused one from the missus, “I like her.”

“You like all sorts,” Watson grumbled, but sounds a bit happier.

Ugh. Married couples. Molly simply hangs up, feeling the conversation is over.

They all shuffle into the lab ten minutes later, and “shuffle” is an apt description, because while the junkies are looking down to see where they’re going, the Watsons are herding them. Watson makes brief introductions, saying of the blonde woman, “This is my wife, Mary, she’s a nurse, this is our neighbor, Isaac Whitney” to a young black lad, and flaps his hand at an unhealthy Caucasian fellow, “and this is the crack den doorman.”

“Oi,” the “doorman” tried to protest.

Molly’s got her gloves and goggles on and her lips pressed flat at the three who are obviously high. “Well, the test should be more accurate since you’re all alive,” she said, handing them each a cup and some tape. “Tape the cup to your penis if your hands are shaking too much,” she added to their un-thought of question. She points to a door to the side. “Restroom’s over there, keep your eyes focused on the cup when peeing, no whinging for help.” Only Holmes shoots her an offended glare, but it’s not like she cares about the opinion of an idiot.

“Are you sure you’ve never done this with live people before?” Mary asked when the door closes behind the three men.

“I have done,” Molly says flatly as she sets up the table for the opiate screening test, not looking at either of them. “This had better be the last time.” And she shoots a dirty look at the restroom before pulling out a few water bottles.

The Watsons look at each other, and the wife squeezes her husband’s arm. He smiles briefly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. When the three men exit the restroom, they hand her their cups, and she takes it over to the table, where she’s got the chemicals and tubes set up for the chromatography tests. There isn’t much talking, although Holmes is typing away on his mobile. For a brief moment, Molly wonders exactly what his game is, since, despite his appearance and smell, he seems the most lucid out of the junkies, the dealer included. The dealer is sitting on a stool and getting his sprained arm wrapped by the nurse, so that’s taken care of. Whitney is sitting in a corner to himself, glancing at Mrs. Watson every once in a while, since she seems to be the only friendly familiar face for him.

When the chromatographic results come in, Molly Hooper sighed and pulled off her gloves. “Well, is he clean?” Watson asks, clearly concerned for just one man. Of course he is, he can afford to be. Molly’s the one who might be seeing one or all of them on her morgue tables if they don’t watch out.

She doesn’t answer him, but walked over to Isaace Whitney, who still seemed dazed, which matches up with his results. New user, with the lowest quantity of diacetylmorphine in his system. “Isaac Whitney?” she said.

The young man nodded, and she slapped him hard. “Hey!” he raised a sluggish hand to his face, looking hurt but only mildly reactive. It’s not going to be pretty.

“It’s a good thing you only had less than these other two idiots, or your mother would be identifying your dead body,” she snapped. Then she thrust the water bottle at him. “Drink this!”

As Whitney does so, with more alacrity than the others thought he could, she strides over to Holmes. She can see he’s aware of what she’s going to do, but doesn’t avoid the slaps coming on either cheek. “You should know better. What’s your excuse?” she glared, shoving the second water bottle in his hands.

“Don’t worry, it’s all for a case,” Holmes says after rubbing his jaw.

“A case?” Watson asks, joining Molly in glaring at him. “What kind of case would need you doing this?”

Taking a moment to drink, Holmes deflects by deducting Watson, joined, surprisingly, by the shorter skinny git, whose name turns out to be Bill Wiggins. Holmes simply called him “Billy”, and the name fit the skinny man more than the puffed-up nicknames he tried to give himself, honestly.

The pathologist glares at the pale, scrawny dealer, his arm recently taped up. “You are a waste of talent,” she said, “you managed to produce maximum effect with just 30% purity cut with negligible contaminants. Idiot.” And she punched him, sending him off the counter.

“Oi!” Mary scolded, as if Molly was undoing her work.

“He’ll live,” the brunette shrugged, “it was just a sprain.”

“No, it’s not!” Billy cries from the ground.

“Yeah, it is,” Molly says mercilessly, handing over the last water bottle. “Try and flush out all that nonsense from your body if you want to preserve what’s left of your brain.”

That’s when Holmes’ mobile sounds off, and he looks at the screen. “Finally!” he shouts.

“Good news?” Billy asks, standing up with the blonde nurse’s help.

The idiot grins at all of them. “Excellent news, the best!” As he walks out the door, he adds, “There’s every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on.” When he reaches the door, the phone to his ear, he says in a swotty voice, as if making a business call, “Excuse me for a second.”

“I can see why the boys like you,” the blonde woman remarks, smiling at Molly.

Watson looks confused, which is his usual look, then snorts, “She’s usually in a better mood.”

Molly makes a face. “Perhaps I should test you for drugs as well,” she grumbled at Watson, making him grin and hold up his hands.

Then he faced his wife with a not-quite-pleading look on his face. “Mary, could you drive Isaac and, uh, Billy, back? I’m going to take Sherlock home.” It really was odd how these grown men have practiced such pitiful faces, but she supposed it was a defence mechanism against being kicked in the goolies straight away.

Mrs. Watson frowned. “Wait, I’m taking him, too?” the nurse points at Billy, who tries to smile winningly, but looks like a train wreck instead.

The blonde doctor opens his mouth, then seems to think the better of it as the audience might be part of the conversation, and he sighs, then walks over to her and starts talking to his wife in a low voice. She talks back in an equally low voice, and Molly snickers as the two remaining druggies do their level best to try to eavesdrop. The pathologist isn’t helping as she noisily cleans up and puts the machine away.

When Holmes comes back into the room, Watson tells him, “Sherlock, Mary’s taking the boys home, and I’ll be taking you home.” His wife looks unhappy about it, but nods.

As they all shuffle out, Molly gets her last word in. “If I see any of you with drugs in your system again, I’ll cut open all your veins and empty them out myself!”

“Yes, ma’am,” the young boy looks scared, and even Billy makes the sign of the cross. Watson only looks cross, as if he’s the one being put out, and hustles the oblivious Holmes out. _e honestly has the nerve?_ Molly glared at him. The missus only laughs, and shoves the younger two ahead of her.

Molly Hooper sighs when they all leave. The paperwork, for some reason, has lost even more than its usual lackluster appeal, and she allows herself a couple of minutes to wonder what the hell is going on in those people’s lives. Then she figures she’ll find out in the news, since a visit to her lab always seems to herald something or other.

That’s why she isn’t surprised to find that it isn’t Holmes’ drug addiction making headlines, but his “wild sexual escapades” with the PA of some tabloid owner. She actually had a few giggles over the titles, as she couldn’t imagine the scarecrow with any sexual impulses ever. Then she thought of the Adler woman and smirked. Well, a dominatrix would turn anyone’s head, even a detecting monk. Still, he must’ve ticked that PA off royally to get that kind of treatment, and considering he thought it was a good idea to do drugs for his “case” only underlined her understanding that Holmes was a complete idiot.

It’s a nighttime visit, however, that has her concerned, for once. She was having a brief dinner, when Mary Watson came into the canteen. “Oh, good,” the blonde woman smiled, “you’re here.”

“Yes,” Molly frowned, “why are you here?” And she tore into her sandwich, because not only was dinner postponed, but she hadn’t had lunch, either. These days, she’s been taking care of Meena’s autopsy duties, since the smells were getting to her, so Meena’s been handling more of the paperwork. Still, Molly has to do the initial reports herself, hence her postponed dinner.

But it’s not like Mrs. Watson cares about her worktime woes as she sat down across from her. “Sherlock’s gone missing,” the blonde woman said, with an urgency that would be comic, except that she seemed serious. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

The pathologist nodded, then swallowed. “I saw the tabloids, but he doesn’t seem the type to be embarrassed about that sort of thing.”

Mrs. Watson blinked. “Right, you don’t know what happened,” she murmured.

“Obviously,” Molly shrugged, and continued to maul her sandwich.

The blonde frowned a bit. “A few nights ago, John and Sherlock broke into Charles Magnussen’s office by Sherlock proposing to Janine.” At Molly’s raised eyebrows, Mrs. Watson explained, “They were the best man and maid of honor at my wedding. I thought it was nice that they got together afterwards, but it turns out he was just using her to get to her boss. Sherlock got shot, and was recuperating in the hospital. Somehow, his brother’s managed to muzzle the tabloids on Sherlock’s injury, so the only thing that came out was that Sherlock was a cad.”

Molly frowned, pausing before picking up her second sandwich. “Did this Janine shoot Holmes?”

“What?” the blonde woman looks startled, then laughs abruptly. “No! Oh my goodness, no,” she smiled, “I know it sounds like the ‘woman scorned’ thing and all that, but she just wanted to hurt Sherlock’s reputation, not really _hurt_ him. Besides, whoever shot Sherlock knocked Janine out, first. John said they found her unconscious before Sherlock went snooping further and got shot in another room.”

“I see,” Molly nodded, then started on the second sandwich. Halfway through, she said, “So you think _I_ might have some idea where Holmes might be?” The blonde woman nodded, her large blue eyes almost hypnotic. The pathologist shrugged. “The day he faked his death, he was on my couch for a few hours, and then he was gone. That time, however, he was perfectly healthy, aside from a few bruises. I can’t imagine where that idiot would go with a gunshot now.”

Mary Watson sighed, looking as depressed as her husband could get at times. “Thanks anyways,” she says, forcing a smile to her face as she stood up.

Molly grimaced uncomfortably, not sure what to say. Good luck? At least you know he’s alive this time? Mostly? Thankfully, the blonde woman retreated before she could force some meaningless platitude from her mouth. She shoveled the rest of the sandwich into her mouth, then dropped the tangerine into her pocket, figuring she could have that and coffee back at the lab. After all, those reports aren’t going to write themselves.

Over the next couple of months, Molly makes everyone else to help pick up Meena’s workload, forcing the newbies to step up in competency. Molly wishes she could rush the process, but knows that that would only backfire and they’d be worse off with rush jobs. So she grits her teeth and waits for them to process bodies that would take either herself or Meena a couple of hours rather than half a day. And then Meena gives birth to a healthy baby boy, which the newbies try to use as an excuse to slack off and party, but Molly cracks the whip and makes them do her work _and_ Meena’s for the day, just because she feels like celebrating.

Every so often, however, she sees the scrawny fellow, Billy, with Stamford in the labs. That first time, she barked at them both, and cackled when the ex-dealer (for he looks a bit better for wear now) whimpers.

“Enough of that, Dr. Hooper, young Billy here’s just taken to chemistry, is all,” the chubby man says, obviously pleased to have such an eager pupil, for once.

“Sherlock said I could help him once I got th’ ‘primary practical knowledge’,” Billy quoted, as if he read it in a training handbook. Perhaps for him, Sherlock was a handbook, although she shuddered to think what was inside.

“Do you know his qualifications?” Molly asked archly, having retrieved her results from the machine.

Stamford nodded, his mouth pursing upwards in a not-smile. “Sherlock can vouch for him.”

“Oh my God,” Molly groaned, “just double-check everything before you leave before another idiot accidentally poisons us.”

“It was just that one time,” Stamford tried to argue as the scrawny young man’s eyes went back and forth between them.

Molly’s eyes cut his answer short. “Once was enough. I trust you have the proper safety precautions in place?” The professor’s downward glance was enough reply. Ugh. “Show him how to do things the right way before he learns how to blow things up the Holmes way.”

As she left the lab, she heard Billy say, “God, she’s like my flippin’ wicked aunt come back to life.”

“Oh, she’d love that,” the traitorous Stamford chuckled. Wretch.

Still, if Stamford was teaching the boy some basics, it was at least a step in the right direction. At least the boy wasn’t asking for body parts like the idiot he seemed to idolize, and for that, she was thankful.

The next month of Meena’s maternity leave had Molly getting swamped retraining the newbies while taking up some of Meena’s work, so she’d forgotten about the whole Holmes and Watson hullaballoo. She’d gathered from bits and pieces that Billy took it upon himself to be Holmes’ nurse, assistant, and dogsbody. Apparently, there was some kind of trouble with the Watsons, so they weren’t around for Holmes all that much, which made Molly a bit depressed to know that Holmes’ primary help while recuperating was his ex-dealer. Things must have gotten pear-shaped to have that be the best option.

Which made her visit Meena every so often before work, causing her to realize she had her own guilt complex somewhere. How disgusting. She was relieved to find, however, that while Meena’s family were flakes when it came to wedding planning, they could be counted on to help watch the baby and give the new parents a night off. The same went for Tom’s brother’s family, even though his cousins were about eight and ten years older. Or perhaps because there was that disparity, they wanted to help watch their tiny cousin as well.

On the few nights Molly watched little George Rad (his middle name was long and nigh-unpronounceable, but Rad seemed an appropriate abbreviation), he was well-behaved enough to sleep through the night. She’s not quite sure how that happened, since it never seemed to happen for the other babysitters, but is relieved that sleeping is all the baby seemed to do at night. He was much more active in the morning, crying, excreting, feeding and whatnot, and she’d had to change her fair share of diapers, unfortunately. Still, she was always relieved to cede responsibility back to his own parents, whether morning or night. There was something about babies that was too alive, although Meena had laughed at her when she struggled to describe her initial discomfort.

In between the business of life and death in the following months, Molly had honestly forgotten about the consulting detective and his doctor and their strange world. Completely and utterly, which was why she was shocked to see Moriarty’s manipulated face take over the telly at work, and, in a voice as manipulated as his appearance, proceeded to ask, over and over, “Did you miss me?”

 _Bollocks,_ Molly Hooper thinks, her feet frozen to the floor as she stared at the screen, _I should have cut him up with my own hands rather than leave it to the Holmes brothers._


	9. The Abominable Bride

Molly Hooper woke up to find three texts from an unknown number on her mobile. She frowned, then read the content.

Even dressed as a man in Victorian times, you are angry, Hooper. Extremely skilled, as always, but angry. One would think even in a drug-influenced mind palace scenario, you would be nicer. SH

Still, you were a good friend to Emelia Ricoletti in 1895, and you managed to scare John. That was funny. SH

Don’t reply, I’m not supposed to have mobile access. SH

Then she swore fluently for a few minutes. She changed her bloody number after seeing Moriarty on the telly, how the hell did Holmes get her new number? She yawned, then scowled. She _really_ hoped it was Holmes texting her, as she couldn’t kill a dead man.

Molly Hooper swore again, then planned to have her mobile number changed yet _again_. Damn bloody fool. Especially one who was obviously high and for some reason wasn’t allowed access to a mobile. Since she was bloody awake, she figured she might as well find out what the hell happened this time. After booting up her laptop, she scrolled through Watson’s diary, er, blog, as that was usually the best indicator of what the hell happened to Holmes. Nothing had been updated since Holmes had hijacked the account to write his version of the Watsons’ wedding. Odd. Some serious shite must’ve hit the fan since then, since Holmes’ useless drug habit nor his getting shot made it in there.

No. Something closer to home must have happened, then. There was no sign of a redacted entry, as had happened previously (yes, she read the damn thing when she was bored, guilty pleasure), so Watson must’ve felt it was too personal or too damning even for a pro-Holmes site. Interesting. And it hadn’t been updated for quite some time, even though Moriarty had just invaded everyone’s tellies for a few heart-stopping minutes. That, oddly enough, hadn’t merited a new entry, even though the dead man had seemed to be Holmes’ arch-nemesis, or some such nonsense.

And out of serious boredom, she looked up “Emelia Ricoletti” and “1895” since Holmes brought it up. She found an unsolved case regarding the death of said woman’s husband, since she had publicly shot herself beforehand, and there was no way a so-called “ghost” was responsible for ridding the population of her obviously-abusive husband, as well as other such dregs of humanity. And Holmes had thought, in an obviously drug-induced state, that Hooper was involved in this while dressed as a man. In 1895. Lovely. She was seriously going to make good on her threat and cut open his veins, since he wasn’t using his brains for anything better than attempting to solve a two-centuries-plus-old mystery while on drugs. She shook her head.

Well, now that she was awake, she might as well get some reading done before her alarm tries to wake her up again. She selected the bookmarked site of “The Journal of Forensic Practice”, then clicked on the article on identifying different types of liver diseases in early to advanced stages. Which reminded her of wanting to try the fried liver at that new Mediterranean restaurant, but that could wait until after work. She’d need to change her mobile number first before anything else, really. What a pain. And after she’d trained Meena and Tom to use the current one, too.

In the meantime, liver disease identification…


	10. The Six Thatchers

It was a Tuesday night when Molly Hooper arrived at the pleasant-looking suburban home with a large handbag on her shoulder, sensible shoes on her feet, and a determined look on her face as she rang the doorbell. It was not the first time she’d been here, nor the first time for such a reason, but she always felt it was better to be on her guard than not.

“Meena, Tom,” Molly nodded at her coworker and Meena’s husband. “I’m here for your son,” she said in all seriousness.

“Could you please rephrase that, it makes you sound like a movie villain,” Tom Aylesworth grimaced. “But thanks for looking after George Rad, we really appreciate it.”

The long-haired brunette nodded briskly, then turned to her coworker. “Meena, if you eat spicy foods tonight, please do it in moderation. It seemed to irritate George Rad the last time I was over.”

Meena was neither surprised nor irritated. “You tested the bottled milk, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Molly answered.

Her coworker sighed. “Maybe you don’t get along with Sherlock Holmes because you two are far too alike,” she said, “I heard he was caught experimenting on paint chips to determine which would be the most flammable.”

Molly wrinkled her nose. “That would explain the skittishness of the lab workers, those bloody idiots.” Then she shoved the couple out. “Go, your child isn’t paying attention, and will likely stay that way if you leave quickly and calmly.”

“You’ve seriously got to start watching action movies, just so you know what not to say to parents,” Tom snorted, but led his wife quickly and calmly out the door.

Molly left the television on for about three minutes after the car drove off, then switched it off. “Now, where were we,” she said, pulling out her tablet. She clicked on an app, and then sat next to the curly-haired boy on the sofa, his eyes as large as his father’s, and his smile as wide as his mother’s. “Ah, the circulatory system.” She enlarged the screen so that he could read along with her, if he so chose. “Let’s review.” Her voice changed to a slightly more pedantic pace and tone as she read aloud, “ ‘The circulatory system is a vast network of organs and vessels that is responsible for the flow of blood, nutrients, hormones, oxygen, and other gases to and from cells. Without the circulatory system, the body would not be able to fight disease or maintain a stable internal environment – such as temperature and pH – known as homeostasis.’ ”

Her mobile pinged, and she sighed as she pulled it from her pocket. “Oh, for once it’s not your parents, it’s Watson. I don’t think you’ve met, your mother won’t bring you to work, for some odd reason.” She read the text aloud, “Would you do us the honor of being my daughter’s godmother?” She barked out a laugh, startling both herself and the infant beside her. “Oh, that was unexpected,” she said, then muttered aloud as she typed back, “No, I’m already a godmother. I’ve reached my limit for looking after live humans.”

Then she made a face at the infant boy, “Besides, I hardly know him or his wife. I would think at least the wife would have some gullible friends to babysit, she seemed to have a bit more common sense.”

Her mobile dinged again. Her nose wrinkled again. “I should have made Mycroft Holmes block his brother and Watson from this phone, but I suppose that would’ve been too much to ask, after having his flunkies scrub through it,” she shook her head. Then she grinned in a conspiratorial fashion, “It was awfully funny to see the older Holmes dressing down his younger brother, especially while the younger was coming down from an overdose.” Then her tone changed yet again, this time more menacing, “And so help me, if I ever catch you doing drugs in a recreational fashion, I will throw you to the tender mercies of rehab so fast, your head might fall off. Then again, if you’re stupid enough to do it like Sherlock Holmes, you weren’t using your head in the first place.” To his credit, the infant didn’t look scared, but neither was he gurgling foolishly. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

She huffed a sigh, then read the next text aloud. “Molly, please, we need another godparent. I’m already the godfather, for some reason. John doesn’t want his alcoholic sister to be godmother, and I think we need a female who isn’t an octogenarian former exotic dancer. SH” The next text read, “Please don’t tell Mrs. Hudson I said that. SH”

Molly Hooper rolled her large brown eyes, then typed back, “No. Try your brother.” Then she smirked at George Rad, who merely burbled and reached for her tablet. “I don’t blame you. The circulatory system is more useful and entertaining than why Watson, et al. think I should be their godmother. Isn’t there a rule saying I can only be a godmother once? If not, there should be.” She cleared her throat, and, after swiping on her tablet, continued to read, “ ‘While many view the circulatory system, also known as the cardiovascular system, as simply a highway for blood, it is made up of three independent systems that work together: the heart (cardiovascular); lungs (pulmonary); and arteries, veins, coronary and portal vessels (systemic), according to the U.S National Library of Medicine’.” She added, “Not that we should believe Americans all the time, but science, unlike people, can’t lie.”

This time, her mobile rang, rather than dinged. “Oh, for f--,” she caught herself, “really?” She frowned when she saw the ID, then answered, “Hello.”

“Dr. Hooper, please refrain from making ridiculous suggestions to my brother,” the elder Holmes’ cultured voice said. “He might actually take it seriously.”

“You make more sense as a godparent than myself,” Molly said, “you actually know these people and are in a position to protect them. And if you can’t take the bugs out of my phone, could you at least put in a Watson and Holmes, er, your brother, blocker?”

There’s a gusty sigh from the other end. “If I had the wherewithal to block my brother, I would,” he muttered, “and the bugs are for your safety, Doctor.”

“It’s not safe if your brother can get to it,” she retorted.

“And I’d rather not be a godparent,” he said with some asperity. “It would require me to deal with,” he paused, “smaller _humans_.” The last word was said as if that were a preventable defect rather than a fact of life.

“And people tell me _I’m_ cold-blooded, metaphorically speaking,” she blinked. “Very well. Neither of us will be the Watson child’s godparent. Problem solved.”

“From what I’ve come across, the GCSE Bitesize site would be an adequate site to read from for a toddler,” Mycroft Holmes continued, as if the problems of bugging her mobile were negligible. “The British Heart Foundation likewise has a site that has large pictures to accompany it. I’m surprised you simply clicked on the first site that came up.”

“Read this,” Molly raised two fingers in the air, not caring if the infant saw it, then hung up. She narrowed her eyes, then clicked on the British Heart Foundation site. “ ‘Every part of your body needs a fresh supply of blood in order to work normally. It's your heart's job to make sure that this is pumped out regularly,’ ” she read aloud. She had to admit, George Rad was rather happy with the large and colorful (yet inaccurately colored for definition purposes) heart at the top of the page. It was simplistic, but she supposed that was a small price to pay for the small boy patting at the picture of the heart.

She quirked her mouth to the side. Well, she supposed looking after Sherlock Holmes would make Mycroft Holmes qualified as a babysitter, and she snorted. Then she continued to read in her pedantic tone as George Rad stared and occasionally reached out to touch the various depictions of the circulatory system.

It took a couple of hours, but George Rad fell asleep, and Molly Hooper caught up on her regular reading material from various forensic sites.

She honestly forgot about the other godparent silliness, being too damn busy with slicing into bodies, finding that one of the newbies had actual promise as a lab technician and training the hell out of him, and minding her actual godchild from time to time, until an obviously alcoholic Watson called her up before work a number of months later. “Could,” he tried to clear his throat, “could you look after Rosie for me?” His voice was rough and his nose sounded clogged with tears.

“Watson?” she frowned. “This is Molly Hooper. Who am I supposed to look after?”

“What?” he sounded as confused as she was. After a pause, he groaned. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I, I’ll call someone else.”

“All right,” she said, but frowned. Strange.

Then she texted another rarely-used number. “Why aren’t you looking after this Rosie?”

“It’s my fault her mother died. SH”

She blinked. These people have the worst timing and the worst luck. She repeated the earlier question and added some commentary. “Why aren’t you looking after this Rosie? He sounded confused and drunk, he shouldn’t be left alone with a small child.”

“Can’t. He won’t let me. SH”

She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s ever stopped you before,” she both muttered and texted.

“I’m serious. He’s very, very angry with me. He should be. SH”

She sighed deeply, then started when the kettle whistled. Once she made her cuppa and had a couple of calming sips, she re-read the texts. And finally texted, “Get someone, anyone, to take that child. Call 999 if you have to.” And then she proceeded to block Watson’s number on her mobile, figuring if the two men were at odds with each other, Watson couldn’t find a way to get past the usual security measures. She really didn’t want him drunk-dialing her again, honestly, it was rather irritating.

Then again, it’s not like she knew them all that well, and vice versa. Enough to be acquaintances, but not enough to be a godparent, dammit, and definitely not enough to get embroiled in what seemed like a soap opera. Certainly, if there were two grown men who chased after criminals for fun, one of whom played dead for a while, and yet ended up with a neglected child and a dead wife, nothing seemed out of bounds to put them into bizarre situations.

It’s not like she’s got the moral high ground, she thought as she got ready for work. There are reasons she’s in the morgue, and only one of which is because she’s very good at her job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sites are real and are livescience.com & British Heart Foundation, thank you! http://www.livescience.com/22486-circulatory-system.html & https://www.bhf.org.uk/heart-health/how-your-heart-works/your-heart-and-circulation


	11. The Lying Detective

Two weeks earlier than whenever the hell the present is supposed to be.

It had been a long, dull day, and she was looking forward to a nice, long bath with a nice, alcoholic drink in hand. This was the opposite of what she was planning, thank you.

“What’s with the dramatics?” she asked when she met up with Holmes on the rooftop. Never mind the new security put in place since he’d jumped, there wasn’t even a guard when she joined him. What’s the use in doing anything when Holmes was involved, honestly? “Text said ‘Rooftop. SH’. So?”

He was sitting against one of the short structures, which, she noticed didn’t have a camera on it. Huh. “I need your help.”

“The point of ignoring your texts was to tell you no,” she sighed, joining him. “Why all the cloak and dagger at work?”

“I don’t want my brother to know I’ve left the flat,” he shrugged. “Please?”

She looked at him. Under his usual dark coat, he looked and smelled rather rough. And even in the dark, she could tell his pupils were as huge as saucers. “You’re using again,” she said.

“It’s for a case,” he said.

“Liar,” she said, “what are you asking me?”

“I need you to give me a drug test in two weeks at this address and prove to John Watson that I’m on drugs,” he answered, handing over a small sheet of paper.

“You’re a brilliant man,” Molly said, glancing at the paper before pocketing it. “It’s a pity you’re rather stupid as well.”

“How is my plan stupid?” he glared at her.

She snorted, unfazed. “Remember the last time you were on drugs ‘for a case’?” She didn’t make the air quotes with her fingers, she didn’t have to. “That got bollixed up, and I’m fairly sure it didn’t help matters when you got shot, either. And now here you are, _brilliant_ plan in hand,” she rolled her eyes, “and oh look, drugs! What could possibly go wrong?”

“Nothing!” he hissed.

 _“Everything!”_ she shot back. “You’re as broken hearted as your idiot friend there, even I can see that, and I hardly know you two! And you expect me to go along with your drug-addled plan, have you forgotten what I promised to do the next time I saw you high?”

As if he were a recording machine, Holmes recited, “You were going to cut open our veins and empty them out.” Then he blinked. “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?”

She smiled slowly. “You’re stupid enough to do drugs for a case, I’d say I was doing you a favor,” she said. “’Sides, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Doing what wrong?” he asked, peeved. He pulled his feet up so his knees were up to his chest, looking like a cross between a miffed cat and pouting child.

“Told you,” she shrugged, “everything. You don’t really be on drugs, just fake it. He won’t know the difference. And when he gets mad at you for lying, because of course he will, tell him it was me. Simple. And nobody ends up on my slab due to extreme exsanguination.” And she smiled a sharp smile at him.

But he frowned at her. “You’re quite willing to be the villain, even though you’re doing it for a good cause.”

“I _am_ the villain,” she sighed, “and there is no good cause, just selfish reason. I just want you to stop bothering me with ridiculous requests and start playing with your friends again. Is that too much to ask?”

“I thought we were friends,” he said, now looking hurt.

“You are _Watson’s_ friend,” she said, “and Lestrade’s, and your landlady’s, and whomever you come across. But I am your acquaintance, colleague at best. If I were an accountant, our paths would never have crossed, and you wouldn’t bother me. But since you and your bleeding heart insist on coming across my path and killing themselves for your friends, and they are _your_ friends, even if one of them doesn’t like you very much right now, well, I suppose I’ll have to deal with it. God knows you’d send the other pathologists into hysterics if you tried to pull this crap on them.”

“John really would hurt you if he found out,” Holmes remarked. “And you are my friend, even if you don’t think so. You care enough to tell me the truth and scold me when no one else will.”

She wanted to actually hit the wall they were leaning against, because it seemed she’d been doing that metaphorically enough. “Because you’re acting like a _child_!” she said. “Or worse, a stroppy teenager! You _and_ Watson! If running a quick exam will get you out of my hair once and for all, and back into each other’s good graces, fine! I’ll do the bloody exam and fake all the results to positive! I don’t care! Just get clean and go, before I change my mind about holding off on the exsanguination!”

And so it was, in the present time, Molly Hooper was pulled in to run a bullshit drugs test on Holmes’ bullshit case. She made damn sure that Holmes, or maybe it was his brother, paid for everything, the ambulance, the driver, the tests (even though they were false), and her damn time, since she wasn’t going to waste the NHS’ time or money to cover fake reports. She looked down at the white lab coat over her clothes, then rolled her eyes. Holmes honestly could’ve gotten an actor to do the damn job, but what the hell, Barts could use the money.

She got out of the ambulance, rang the doorbell sharply, and sighed when it was Watson who opened the door. Of course it was. “Is Holmes here?” she asked, returning his exasperated expression.

He gave her another look. “Let me guess, he asked you to come two weeks ago?”

She nodded. “He said he’d be clean,” she said grimly, “if he isn’t, I get the pleasure of cutting him open or throwing him into rehab myself.”

Watson’s odd-colored eyes widen, then narrow when he turned to look at Holmes. “Oh, you’re not gonna like this,” he said, his apparently thin nerves already fraying.

Holmes, however, was stumbling into the hallway. “If you’d like to know how I predict the future,” he trailed off, looking and sounding out of his gourd.

“I don’t care how!” Watson snapped.

Holmes held up his hands as he staggered forward. “Okayyyy. Fully equipped ambulance; Molly can examine me on the way. It’ll save time.” He stopped so abruptly that it seemed his stomach caught up with him, and he gasped. Then he said, as clearly as he could, “Ready to go, Molly?”

“Are you?” she pursed her lips. She took in an older woman, short grey hair, glasses, with neutral, casual-professional clothes, who stood behind the men. Having Googled the address, then the owner, she thought this woman looked younger than her picture, which would be a first.

“Just tell me when to cough,” Holmes said imperiously, then smiled a bright, false smile and headed toward the ambulance. “Hope you remembered my coat.”

“Fuck you, Holmes!” she yelled at his back. She could hear Watson snicker, but she didn’t care, and rounded on the blonde man. “And fuck you, Watson, turning him into this mess.”

“I didn’t do this to him, he did it to himself!” he snapped back. “And it’s none of your business!”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s not, but you idiots make it my business, doing drugs ‘for a case’,” she grumbled, “who the hell does something stupid like that? Oh!” she paused, as if surprised. “Look, the genius in the ambulance!”

“Just, just check him out,” Watson shook his head, looking both angry and confused. “I just want to make sure.”

Molly saw Holmes’ landlady coming up to Watson, then frowned, confused a bit herself. “Looks like everyone’s here,” she muttered, “I’m surprised Lestrade isn’t hiding in the bushes.”

“Oh God,” Watson pinched the bridge of his nose, “just see if he’s clean or not, okay?”

“Fine, fine,” she huffed, “go to the house, do the test, go to the car park, blah blah blah. Corpses can wait, they always do.” She walked over and got into the ambulance.

When she pulled out a vial and needle, Holmes’ eyes widened. “I thought you’d wait on that,” he said, obviously looking like he wished he’d sat up front instead of on the stretcher in the back.

“I’m here, we’ve got the equipment, and I really do need to see if you’re clean or not,” Molly said grimly. “Give them a show, while we’re at it.”

He sighed, tied the rubber tube on his left arm, and held it out. “Take it, you vampire,” he glared.

“Might as well,” she murmured, “it’s much easier to find a vein in a stopped than a moving vehicle. We’ll start moving when I get the test set up, it should speed the process a bit.”

“You’ve done this before?” he leaned forward.

She sighed loudly. “You act as if I’ve never done my bloody job before,” she said, “or trained for it, for that matter.” Then she glared when he opened his mouth. “And don’t bring that nutter Anderson into it. He makes us all look bad.” She looked offended that he would even bring up that person here.

“Fine, sorry,” he muttered, and she shook her head. As she was inserting the vial into the machine, he saw his friend getting into the limousine, and said, pulling off the rubber tube, “Close the doors, we need to head to our next destination.”

“Yes, yes, let me get you swabbed up before you bleed all over the place,” she said, sterilizing the puncture efficiently before locking the doors. As she settled down, she knocked on and hollered through the window, “Ready!”

The driver knocked back and started the vehicle, following after the large black car. Once the ambulance gets going, however, neither the pathologist nor the detective said anything.

It’s only when the machine beeps that Molly speaks up. “Even if you’re drugged, you’re going to go through with this, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “I am clean,” he said, “well, chemically speaking. I did have to forgo my bathing habits a bit to look the part.”

“And smell it, too,” she made a face. She waited until the ambulance came to a stop to see the results, however, and then she sighed. “I can’t believe I’m doing this again,” she muttered.

“What?” he frowned.

“Telling your best friend that you’re dying when you’re not,” she said simply.

He huffed. “Told you I was clean,” he said.

“You’re a very good actor,” she said, “and a worse addict.” She shook her head. “It’s funny, you look awful even though you’re sober, while that therapist looks younger than her picture, even though she has to deal with Watson.”

“Mm, funny,” he murmured, his thoughts already wandering when she opened the back doors.

She thought it was interesting that the ambulance beat the limousine, but she supposed the limo driver knew better than to rush to a place he didn’t like to go to. Speaking of, she saw Watson get out of said limo and head over to their ambulance like he was expecting the worst. May as well give it to him, then. “Well, how is he?” he asked Molly, when it was clear he wanted to shake the answer out of Holmes himself.

“Basically fine,” Holmes answered instead.

She wanted to punch him, but she supposed he needed to keep whatever strength he had for this act. “For a walking corpse,” she added.

“They do say certain drugs keep one operational even after death,” Holmes said, in a seemingly pleasant voice while his eyes looked like they were staring into another dimension.

“And formaldehyde makes an excellent preservative for future studies,” she shot back when he pulled on his black coat that was lying on the stretcher. Then she turned to Watson. “If he insists on delaying rehab for this bloody case, I’d like to have him back in a few weeks, because that’s all he’s got left.”

“Exactly, weeks,” said the man bracing himself on the ambulance door frame. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You two are bloody sick!” Watson snapped.

“No, I’m healthy, he’s dying,” Molly dropped the vicious glee on her face to answer flatly. “If you won’t put him in hospital, I will.”

“So this is real?” Watson said, stepping up to Holmes, who finally made to the ground, tottering just a bit. “You’ve really lost it. You’re actually out of control.”

Holmes snorted. “When have I ever been that?”

“Since the day I met you,” Watson said tightly in a low voice.

“Oh, clever boy,” Holmes beamed, just a bit off track, “I’ve missed you fumbling ‘round the place.”

Watson turned to Molly. “I thought this was some kind of--”

“What?” Holmes interrupted.

The blonde man turned back to the tall brunette. “Trick,” he finished.

Holmes snorted. “’Course it’s not a trick. It’s a _plan_.”

“Says the addict,” Molly muttered as a familiar voice yelled for Holmes. But she wasn’t sure if she was talking about Holmes, Watson, or herself. But it was Holmes’ show, and his (or his brother’s) money, so she stepped back and let the car crash, or whatever Holmes’ plan was, happen. She wasn’t sure if they would be getting back together like a melodramatic Shakespearean couple, but she hoped the next time she saw either of them, it was for work, nothing personal. Berks.


	12. The Final Problem

Molly Hooper was having a lovely day.  The sun was out, the sky was blue, it’s beautiful… she thought she’d read that somewhere, but couldn’t recall quite where.  Still, that didn’t detract from the positively bucolic scene she found herself in, what with Meena and her family having a picnic and they’d invited her.  And she’d accepted, because this wasn’t the first picnic she’d been invited to and gone.  This was, however, the first picnic she’d been to that had actual sunlight, as the previous ones were cloud-covered and windy, with one memorable time being a rainy thunderstorm.  Nevertheless, today, it was a lovely day, and she was having it, dammit.  George Rad had had his nappies changed before the ride and was in a good mood, the parents were both well-caffeinated to balance the energy of their son, the sandwiches were freshly prepared, the beverages in their proper containers, and there were no midges about.  Molly sat on the picnic blanket eating sandwiches while Meena and her family were harassing, or rather, attempting to feed, the ducks.  She took more than a few photos of the small adventure with her camera in between sandwich bites.  She’s not surprised the park is full of pale people, probably pulling sickies in order to catch the rarity that was a sunny day in London.  All in all, a rather pleasant day, in spite of the predominance of half-naked people (more than a few who should really cover up if they didn’t wish to invite skin cancer) carpeting the park grounds.

 

Which is probably why it went to hell so fast.  Heaven forbid that Molly Hooper should be given a completely lovely day without it going to shit somehow.  But it started innocuously enough with a call from work, requesting her to work on a couple of bodies for Holmes (of course) of a one Dr. Shlessinger and his wife who’d returned from abroad dead rather than full of bad German phrases.  She sighed, then stood up.  “Got to go,” she said.

 

Meena’s face crumpled a bit as she came over.  “What, work?  I thought you said you had the day off.”

 

“I did,” Molly made a face, “it’s that idiot Holmes wanting me to autopsy a tourist couple.  I don’t know why nobody else wants to work with him, he’s an idiot, but no more so than the actual detectives at the Met.”

 

Her coworker snorted.  “God, I hope you never say that out loud when they’re about,” she said, “I don’t know who’d throw a worse fit, the detectives or Sherlock.”

 

Molly rolled her eyes.  “Whatever.  Make friends with the sunlight since I can’t, God knows you tan better than some of the folks around here.”

 

The shorter woman shook her head.  “My mother would pinch your arm if she heard you,” she said.

 

“You do know the reason why your husband wants to picnic so much is to see his dark, lovely wife get lovelier under the sun, correct?” Molly raised an eyebrow as she picked up her bag.

 

“Oh, just go!” Meena blushed.  As she pressed more wrapped sandwiches onto the taller woman, she yelled, “Tom, George Rad, Auntie Molly’s going to work!”

 

Father and son waved, and Molly waved back, a little stiffly.  Then she went to catch the Tube.

 

Or rather, she would have, if she wasn’t bloody kidnapped on the way.  As she felt strong hands grabbing her from behind, she tried to fight off her attackers using the self-defense techniques she’d been taught, but there were at least two and one had already injected her with something that made her woozy and nerveless almost immediately, those bastards.  She tried to scream for help, but the world was turning black and even her vocal chords felt too relaxed to force air through.

 

She flickered in and out of consciousness, but in the stifling darkness, she thought she heard people talking.  At one point, she thought she was spun about in a small room, which made her feel slightly ill, but she was still too woozy to do anything about it.  She started to go back to sleep, when she was unceremoniously knocked about, and she yelped.

 

And that’s when she came to, the drugs still in her system, but she was unfortunately aware enough of her surroundings to realize that she didn’t have much.  Surroundings, that is.  It felt like she was in a small box, and there was the smell of a corpse.  Oh.  She was buried alive in a much-too-snug coffin.  Shit.  Who did she piss off this time?

 

She can hear someone speaking very, very fast, and she realizes it’s Holmes outside of this coffin.  Okay, she’s not underground yet, but she’s still imprisoned.  Thankfully, she’s not tied up or handcuffed, but there’s barely any room to breathe, much less move.  But if Holmes is outside, she needs to get the idiot’s attention.  She knocks the side of the coffin with her sharp knuckles, wincing a bit as she does so.  There’s a pause in the talking, and she keeps knocking.  She’s not sure how much air she’s got left, especially after the coffin’s been moved about, so she keeps knocking as hard as she can.

 

Then she hears a horrified voice shout, “MOLLY!”

 

The room, no, the coffin, shakes and presses in on her, and while she’s still too groggy to scream, she keeps knocking.  The pressing, the shaking, stops abruptly, but she’s not free.  What the hell?

 

Then she hears, “What the hell, Sherlock?”

 

Exactly.  Oh God, she has to rely on these idiots to save her?  She keeps knocking, because she’s fairly sure the lack of air is compensating for the drugs starting to wear off.

 

Again, the coffin shakes, and she gasps, but it’s shallow as the space she’s given.  In what feels like days, but probably minutes, there’s air, sweet, blessed air, and her next gasp becomes a coughing fit.

 

She tries to open her eyes, but it’s too bright.  She tears up as she closes them again.  “Fuck,” she coughed.  She’s being pulled out, but is too weak to fight.  Only when she is sat up against a metal wall does she open her eyes again, and blinks hard against the tears and the light.

 

A pale face swims in front of her.  “Molly,” it’s a different voice.  Higher, a bit nasal.  Watson.  “Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”

 

“Can you?” she asked hoarsely, forcing her arm to hold up the hand pointing a middle finger before it flops back down.

 

“Whatever they’ve dosed her with, it’s still in her system,” Watson murmured.  “And considering how much your sister hates her, I don’t think we’ll be going to hospital any time soon.”

 

Sister? Molly thought muddily.  She frowned, or at least, she thought she did.

 

“Exactly, Dr. Watson,” a clear, female voice said.  “Since you solved the puzzle so nicely, would you like another minute with the girl on the plane?”

 

“Yes!” Holmes gasped.

 

There’s a sound of static, and a girl’s voice, pitched higher with fear, is apparently still stuck in a plane.  Or a radio drama, Molly isn’t quite sure.  It all sounds so ridiculous.  Her vision’s still blurry, but she can tell there’s someone else in the room, someone tall, but it’s not the girl or the woman.  Holmes and Watson try to talk to the girl, but she only shares her hysteria.  Molly wishes whatever drugs they gave her, they’d give to the girl, too.  She certainly needs it.

 

The static comes back, and Molly winced.  The precise, mocking voice says, “Did you think the tests were over?  We’ve got one more.”

 

And, to Molly’s horror, she heard Moriarty saying, “Tick-tock, tick-tock,” the lights in the room pulsing with his words.

 

She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until someone wraps their arms around her.  “Shhhh, shhhh, it’s okay, it’s just a recording,” Holmes says.

 

“Why do you embrace her when she says terrible things to you?” the woman asks from the speakers, thankfully interrupting Moriarty’s recording.  “What is she to you, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

He doesn’t answer her, only asks Molly, “Are you okay to walk?”

 

She isn’t, but she nods.  She tries to push herself to her feet, but stumbles.  Both Holmes and Watson support her, and they half-carry her to the next room.  “Why are you even bothering?” another voice, male, asks.

 

“We can’t just leave her here,” Watson hissed on her right, “and she’s alive.  Better to keep an eye on her.”

 

That means they’ve left dead bodies in their wake, Molly reasoned.  She supposed she was better off with them for now, at least they could drag her out of whatever the mad woman in the speakers puts her in.

 

“Sit down,” Holmes directs her, but he and Watson laid her gently against the wall.  Unlike the previous room, there is no table, no coffin.  But apparently, there’s still a screen, and speakers.  And this next, or last, test, seems to be for Holmes to either shoot his friend, Watson, or his brother, Mycroft.  Ah, the other tall man.  Well, that would explain why the other voice seemed familiar. And the mad woman was apparently the Holmes sister.  She wonders why the Holmes family sounds like it came from some Gothic novel, mad sister locked up in a facility and presumed dead, seemingly heartless and all-powerful brother with a soft spot for baby brother, and friends who would walk through fire for each other.

 

She’s too far away, and her vision’s still maddeningly blurry, but it sounds like he’s chosen to take himself out of the game by shooting himself.  Ah, that’s another way to take oneself out, she thought hysterically.  She hears something soft, hissing, but it sounds several times, and she sighed as they all slumped over.

 

“I didn’t expect you to live, Molly Hooper,” the woman’s voice said flatly.  “But since you’re practically useless, I’ll put you in with my similarly useless oldest brother.  I’ve got one more game to play with Sherlock and John.”  It almost sounds like a child taunting her, claiming to have more friends, and flouncing off.  How odd.

 

Molly’s strength is returning all too slowly, so she doesn’t fight the guards that pick them all up and out of the room, only to drag them elsewhere.  She hears a key ring jangle in someone’s pocket, so she assumes Holmes the younger and Watson will be going on a trip.

 

She decides that if the mad woman is gone, it’s safe to get some actual rest, so she does, on a flat, practical bed.  When she wakes, she finds herself in something like a cage in a zoo.  Her vision’s cleared up, her throat’s dry, her stomach’s growling, and body feels less like a dead weight.  She pushed herself up on her elbows, and sees that, while the sheets are dark grey, the pillowcase is white, and the room is a similar mix of grey walls and furniture, with a white floor surrounded by a grey border.  Oh, and Mycroft Holmes placed unceremoniously on said floor, still unconscious.  She’ll leave him be, as he’s probably got not much rest, either, what with going through whatever mad tests and dead bodies their mad sister set up.

 

Molly looked up to see a large skylight, along with well-placed lights, cameras, and a speaker along the edges of the ceiling.  Oh.  So this _is_ a cage, she thought, and probably the Holmes’ sister’s cage.  Curious, she forced herself out of bed, then inspected the bed.  She isn’t surprised to find a number of makeshift lock picks and sharp implements tucked under the foot rest side of the bed.  Handy, she thought, as she pocketed them all.  She walked over to the IKEA version of a prison desk and chair.  It was ridiculous, she almost giggled, at the board screwed into the wall serving as a table, and the half-cube as a chair.  She idly pushed the chair around, finding it to be a bit heavy, but she supposed if she were locked up here for years, pushing that chair around could develop muscles that would allow her to overpower whoever came past that glass wall.

 

Was it glass?  Or plastic?  Flipping around the reverse letters, she read, “Maintain distance of three feet.”  No metric system here, she noted darkly.  She knocked on the transparent wall, and bit her bottom lip at the thickness of it.  Plastic or glass, it was bloody solid.

 

“Good thing she disabled the alarms,” Mycroft Holmes’ voice said behind her.  “Or you’d have set off an alarm and the guards would be tackling and tasering you as I speak.”

 

“So the grey’s not just a pretty border, then,” Molly murmured, and stepped away.  The eldest Holmes was still lying on the floor, but his eyes were open and weary.  “Why did she do that to me?  And what the hell’s going on?”

 

There’s a long silence, and she doesn’t think he’ll break it, until he sits up and does so.  “I’m afraid you’ve been the pawn in yet another game of madness versus Sherlock,” he sighed.  “And this time, it really was personal.”

 

Molly rolled her eyes.  “Personal to her, not to me.  I’ve never met or heard of her before.  I’ll ask again, what the hell’s going on?”

 

“It’s a matter of national security,” he began.

 

“Oh, don’t give me that!” she snapped.  “My security’s just been stuffed in a coffin, or didn’t you notice?  What made your sister finally snap the cracker and shower us all in shit?”

 

“Ah.  Well put,” he blinked.  Sitting on the floor, he managed to look both vulnerable and put-upon, something she believed nobody else on this planet had seen except for his parents.  He haltingly told her an abbreviated and much-censored version (she assumed) of recent events, which made her blink in turn.

 

“So that explains Moriarty’s face hacking,” Molly mused, “but not why I’m here.  I’d understand if it were Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, or even that drug-addled boy.  Why did she take _me_ , Mycroft Holmes?”

 

He stared at her, then gave a disbelieving huff.  “I’m not sure if you’re dimmer than I thought, or as oblivious as Sherlock,” he said.  She narrowed her eyes, and he turned up his nose, obviously in better spirits now.  “She’s jealous of your relationship with Sherlock,” he said slowly, as if to a small child.

 

“What relationship?” she frowned.  “He bothers me, I don’t kill him, and we do our jobs.”

 

The tall man huffed another laugh.  “Dr. Watson said something along the same lines, but a bit more cheeky and less,” he waved a hand airily, “murderous.”

 

Molly bristled, as if she were her cat and something smelled offensive.  “I am _nothing_ like Watson,” she hissed.

 

The corners of his lips went up. “No, you’re not,” he agreed.  “He actually kills people, you just talk about it.”

 

She sighed.  “I don’t _have_ to kill people,” she said, “I just like them better when they’re dead.  They’re so much easier to understand.”

 

Now he frowned.  “Oh.  I see.”  Then he turned and stared at nothing in particular, saying nothing else.

 

Molly shook her head, but figured he was getting lost in thought, or something.  She hoped one of those thoughts would be on how to get out of here, because the picnic seemed like a distant memory, even though it happened just this morning.  Or something like that.

 

So, having nothing better to do, and having exhausted all her options and curiosity, she sat on the bed and waited.

 

To her surprise, it was nothing that Mycroft Holmes did, but rather, the other people who worried about him did.  And it was obvious they worried, from the small army that got them out of the prison cage, to the harried-looking Lestrade waiting outside the prison, to the glossy assistant with a tight expression in the back of the limo.

 

Molly was silent throughout the proceedings, including a brief trip to a private doctor’s office, but finally nodded when they dropped her off at her flat.  “You thought nobody cared about you,” she told the eldest Holmes, “you idiot.”

 

Then she got inside her flat, noticed how very tidy it was, coaxed Obit out of hiding and fed him, and drank two tumblers full of the good Scotch she’d stowed away.  Then she drank some water, had a midnight snack, used the loo, and went to sleep.

 

And woke up, feeling disoriented for the umpteenth time.  She made a quick check of her room, herself, and her cat, sleeping on her stomach.  Then she remembered everything that happened the day before and groaned.  Grumbling, she tried to flail her arm as far as it could for her mobile on the side table, when she remembered that it was stolen or disposed of when she got kidnapped.  Great, she couldn’t even call in sick.  Oh wait, she had a land line in the kitchen.  Ugh.  Getting out of bed didn’t seem like a great idea, especially since the Scotch seemed to overpower whatever food, water and drugs were left in her body.

 

Sighing, she dislodged her cat, who also grumbled before he resettled back onto her bed, the lucky thing, and went to the kitchen.  She dialed a number she knew automatically, and was surprised to find she’d been given the week off.  Oh.  She supposed it was a side effect of knowing the Holmeses, like getting kidnapped by them.  All right.  She went to the loo, then back to bed.  Might as well enjoy the lie-in if it’s free, she thought, and went straight to a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

The rest of the week was uneventful, and Molly Hooper found that not only could she not share anything of that prison with anybody, she didn’t want to.  She wasn’t sure if it was denial, or shock, or perhaps a combination, but the comfortable numbness was something she knew would go away if she even tried to talk to the Holmeses.  So she didn’t talk to anyone, merely nodding when clerks greeted her and texting empty phrases to coworkers when they asked about her vacation.

 

When she went back to work, she found she wasn’t in the mood to talk, even to insult or correct the newbies.  This seemed to scare them more, and Meena was concerned, but when she asked, Molly only shook her head.  She noticed the only time she talked was to Obit, who didn’t talk at all, which seemed to suit her strange mood.

 

It was only broken when Holmes the younger (but not youngest) visited the morgue.  It seemed he’d grown up a bit, or perhaps sobriety under extreme circumstances did something to a body.  Either way, he seemed even more concerned when he noticed her lack of insults.  “I’m sorry,” he said, and she frowned.  “My sister isn’t talking, either.  But in her case, it’s for the best.”  And he looked infinitely older.  No:  he finally looked his age.  Her lips flattened, and she shook her head.

 

“Mycroft told me about your conversation,” he said, still looking troubled.  “And you still don’t know, do you?”  She frowned again, briefly.  “Eurus was jealous of you.  She was jealous that you got to play with me, even though you were mean to me.  She didn’t understand why you got to do that and not be locked up when she was.  Granted, she did try to kill me when we were children, and she did burn our childhood home down, and she actually killed my best friend because she was jealous – oh,” he interrupted himself, “you didn’t know about that.  Sorry, forget about it.”  She shook her head with a smirk.  “Fine,” he pouted.  “Don’t.  Anyways, that’s why you got taken.  You got to be the friend and sister she never was, and she got jealous.  There’s your answer.  It’s not pleasant, but the truth never is.”

 

Then, to her surprise, he hugged her.  “I’m sorry,” he said again.  “I’m sorry you got caught up in this, and I hope you don’t hate me.”

 

“I don’t hate you,” she said, her voice feeling rusty from disuse, “I don’t like you sometimes, but I don’t hate you.”

 

He releases her from the hug, which was her intention, and grinned.  “You talked!”

 

“And you’re an idiot!” she punched him in the arm.

 

“Ow!” he frowned, rubbing it.  “That actually hurt!”

 

She glared.  “Sister?  Friend?  _Really_?”

 

“Yes, _really_ ,” he glared back.  “If you bothered to notice, other people care about you, too.”

 

Ah.  So oldest brother blabbed everything.  Figures.  She sighed.  “I never wanted siblings,” she said.

 

“Too bad, you got them anyway,” Holmes smirked.  “And friends.  Don’t forget friends.”

 

“You’re just going to keep rubbing it in my face, aren’t you?” she muttered.  “So is Watson my brother-in-law?”

 

Holmes choked on thin air.  “What?” he coughed.

 

She sighed again, more deeply.  “If I’m your sister, according to your logic, then Watson is my brother-in-law,” she repeated.  “See, this is why dead people make more sense.  Sooner or later, it’s clear what killed them, and how, and maybe even why.  But living motivations, feelings,” she wrinkled her nose, “it’s confusing unless it conforms to a previous pattern.  But living people aren’t like the books or movies, unless it’s you, Holmes.”

 

He frowned.  “How am I like a book or a movie?”

 

She barked an odd laugh.  “Your sister is from a Gothic novel, your brother’s from a spy novel, and you, you and Watson are,” she paused, thinking of a suitable comparison, “like those old romantic adventures.  The old-fashioned meaning of romance, as well as the new,” she explained when he made a face.  “You know, they could be solving crimes, or sailing the seven seas, or going round the world in eighty days.  Grand adventure, with some humor and romance in it.  And some dead bodies, or there wouldn’t be any risk.”  When she saw understanding dawn, she nodded.  “So.  Even if Watson is straight as an arrow, he’s still your partner in all senses of the word in a romance in all senses of that word.”

 

“I’m thinking of downgrading you to ‘friend’,” he said, half-joking.

 

“Isn’t it odd, to go from having no friends, to having an abundance of them and family, to boot?” she asked.  “Because it feels odd.  Almost itchy.”

 

“I’ve been adopted by Mrs. Hudson, or so John says,” he shrugged.  “It’s not that bad.”

 

She narrowed her eyes.  “It’s very uncomfortable.”

 

But he only grinned like a lunatic, which didn’t help matters at all.  “Look at it this way:  John’s already given my parents a grandchild, so there’s no pressure!”

 

She stared at him for several beats, then laughed loudly, to the point of tears.  He laughed, too, but finished earlier than she, and smiled at her, bemused.  “You haven’t met my mum,” she said, “you’d regret adopting me in a heartbeat.”

 

“You’ve met my sister,” Holmes raised an eyebrow, “ _and_ my brother, and you’ve yet to meet John’s alcoholic sister Harry.  But we’re all nightmares.”

 

She thought about it.  “Oh, all right, then,” she said.

 

“Come by the flat,” he said, “it’s all cleaned up and baby-proofed now.  John even put a new smiley face on the wallpaper.”  And he grinned goofily at the image in his mind’s eye.

 

She rolled her own eyes.  “Is Watson and his child living there, too?”

 

He rolled his back.  “I used to call Rosie ‘Watson’.  Stick to christian names, it’s less confusing.  But yes, they are,” he added quickly.

 

She tilted her head in acknowledgment.  “All right,” she said, and blinked rapidly when he went into something like a spin of joy.  “Go home, you ridiculous man.”

 

“Bye, Molly, see you later!” he shouted as he swooped out as dramatically as he swooped in.

 

She sighed, then leaned back.  Dammit.  She supposed they were friends, at least, she ought to attempt to visit.

 

So when she finally returned to 221 B Baker Street, she was surprised to see how many things had survived the explosion Mycroft Holmes told her, and how many things were replaced so very close to the original.  She certainly wasn’t expecting the strange wallpaper to be replicated, but then again, she wouldn’t put it past either of the Holmes brothers to hunt down something as odd as all that.  Mrs. Hudson sassed her on the way out of the kitchen, but not before offering her tea, and she sat bemused as John and Sherlock (how very odd to be thinking of them like that) took turns playing with the baby girl, who was going to have a very interesting life, no matter what.

 

Then Sherlock said, “You’re not her godmother, but you’re her aunt, so come here and play with Rosie.  I know for a fact you play with your godson, so don’t try and deny those double-X chromosomes.”

 

She snorted at the assumption.  “As ever, Mr. Holmes, you are an arse.”

 

John covered his baby’s ears and glared, but she rolled her eyes at him.  “Oi, just sit down and play, please?  It’s uncomfortable seeing you smirk at us, like you’re Mycroft or something.”

 

She shuddered.  “Ugh.  No.”  So she walked over to play with the girl.  “Don’t think I don’t know that’s a shameless ploy to hide the fact you two are going to snog each other’s brains out.”

 

The blonde man blushed fiercely, but so did the curly brunette, and she smirked.  Salvaging what little dignity he had, John said to his daughter, “Play nice with Auntie Molly, all right?  And I don’t mind if you drool or toss things at her, either!”  And he and Sherlock ran when Molly started throwing blocks at them, a couple even hitting their targets.

 

Rosie laughed and picked up blocks to throw at them, too, but hers fell short.  “Don’t worry,” she told the little girl, “I’m going to teach you how to throw properly, and then we’re going to see if Sherlock’s got any body parts we can work on.  All right?”  She isn’t surprised when the girl nods back, but she’s yet to see how far her comprehension goes.

 

That’s fine.  They have a bit of time now to get into a bit of trouble, and, if she plays her cards right, even more trouble to get into, with or without the parents snogging in a hallway.  And, like playing with George Rad, she’s strangely unbothered by how comfortable she is.  Perhaps because they have yet to be even more complicated, but she’ll see how things go after age five.

 

In the meantime, there is a tape measure to dig out of her handbag, and a few nice, handy balls lying on the floor.  Nothing like a little hand-eye coordination exercise to get things going, and her grin is almost as evil as Sherlock’s as she pulls out the tape measure triumphantly.  Then she picks up a ball and sits beside Rosie.  “Here’s how you hold a ball,” she starts, and molds the girl’s chubby fingers around the toy.

 

Sherlock and John won’t know what hit them.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to assume (until proven otherwise) that Series 4 is the final chapter, and that it was another Sherlock drug dream. Thanks for putting that in my head, Three Patch Podcast! ;D As such, I've gone full tilt with these last chapters, as obviously the writers did, minus the Thelma and Louise ending. Or did they? *grins*


End file.
